') f)00 






.. ch fc . :s 




Class JPJ 1 1 fl fr 
Book . Xf 



CoRyrightN 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



/ 



A YEAR BOOK OF FAMOUS LYRICS 






' 



William Shakespeare 
1564-1616 



A Tear Book of 
Famous Lyrics * 

Selections from the^'Brifish /and American Poets, 
Arranged for Daily\J$.egding or Memorising 



Edited by ^/ 

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES 

I) 

Editor of" Cap and Gown" " Golden Treas- 
ury of American Lyrics" etc.; author of"A 
Kipling Primer" " On Life's Stairway," etc. 



Illustrated with Portraits 




BOSTON 
DANA ESTES & CO MP ANT 

PUBLISHERS 



l&MV 



THE LIBRARY O 

CONGRESS, 
Two Copifc* Received 

AUG. 19 1901 

Copyright entry 

ClL.t4. Kfot 

CLASS O-XXc. N« 

2Z7* 

COPY B. 






Copyright, igoi 
By Dana Estes & Company 

All rights reserved 



A YEAR BOOK OF FAMOUS LYRICS 



■ 






Colonial ^wss 

Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co. 

Boston, Mass., U. S. A 



PREFACE 

There are year-books many and collections of verse in- 
terminable ; yet the idea of arranging a general anthology 
in the form of a calendar of selections for every day, may, 
so far as the editor knows, claim at least novelty as its 
excuse for being. Similar ideas have been embodied in 
book form, but never exactly this idea; that, namely, of 
including only notable short poems, mainly lyrical, from the 
pens of English and American writers, and of so arranging 
the selections that one or two may be read or committed to 
memory daily. Mainly lyrical, we have said, since a 
number of poems are rather epigrammatic, or elegiac, or 
narrative, than in any strict sense song-like. The book 
will be found, however, to be so permeated by the lyrical 
spirit, that a few deviations from orthodox canons may 
be forgiven. Nor would the editor wish the word famous 
to be interpreted too rigidly. The great majority of the 
selections have obtained the suffrages of time. A limited 
number are drawn from contemporary sources, and have 
scarcely had opportunity to prove the strength of their 
hold on popular esteem. Some, also, are less widely known 
by the mass of readers than one could wish, but have 
already compelled praise from competent critics, and thus 
won a secure if a more limited fame. It would have been 
easy by including only one selection for each day to have 
placed on every page a poem which should be both famous 
and unquestionably lyrical. But it seemed better to present 



PREFACE 

a larger number of poems at the expense, in a few instances, 
of conformity to conventional standards. 

" A great critic on songs," wrote Robert Burns to Thom- 
son in 1795, "says that Love and Wine are the exclusive 
themes for song-writing." This certainly is only half the 
truth, even if song is here used in its narrower sense. Are 
there not religious songs, songs of friendship, of parting, of 
parental affection, of patriotism, of nature, of grief ? As 
to bacchanalian songs, one is surprised to discover how few 
approach the first order of excellence. Barry Cornwall's 
attempts are examples of mere posing. He was the most 
abstemious of men, and his laudations of " wine, boys, 
wine," are as little convincing as his praise of the ocean: 

" I'm on the sea ! I'm on the sea! 
I am where I would ever be," 

when he never could be induced to venture on the voyage 
from Dover to Calais. Burns's " Willie Brew'd a Peck o' 
Maut " is justly called by Mr. Henley " a little masterpiece 
of drunken fancy," but it hardly finds a place in our collec- 
tion. Burns, of course, has written others nearly as good, 
and Peacock penned several ; so, too, Moore and others. 
But the editor of this compilation was not prepared to find 
so few good drinking-songs in comparison with the number 
of superior love lyrics. When we turn to the theme of love, 
we find ourselves at once in a field of lyric production well- 
nigh exhaustless. Yet even in the age when the poets 
carolled of love as naturally as mating birds, we have lyrics 
of contemplation like " Blow, Blow, thou Winter Wind," 
" Sweet be the Thoughts that Savour of Content," and 
" The Character of a Happy Life." The themes for song- 
writers, indeed, are practically unlimited. 

But if its themes are so varied, the true lyric has very 
exacting limitations. It must possess a singing quality as 
distinguished from the telling or narrative quality of the 



PREFACE 

epic; it must be subjective and personal, although the emo- 
tion must be of universal appeal; it must be simple, as 
opposed to a complex form like the drama ; it must have 
unity, and must be brief. 

As regards metrical structure, however, there is the 
widest liberty. Not only is the variety of stanza forms 
unlimited, and the order or arrangement of rhymes at the 
option of the versifier, but rhyme may be quite dispensed 
with. For are not Lamb's " Old Familiar Faces," Tenny- 
son's " Tears, Idle Tears," and Longfellow's " Golden 
Milestone " examples of true lyrics ? On the other hand it 
is equally obvious that such poems as " Thanatopsis," 
and " When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed," are not 
lyrics, though they are informed with much of the lyrical 
spirit. 

In several instances the editor of this book has omitted 
lines or stanzas when a distinct gain in unity would result, 
and in a few cases, too, extracts from long poems have been 
presented apart from their context ; but in practically all 
such instances as the latter, a note has been made of the 
excision. A few of the lyrical divisions of Tennyson's " In 
Memoriam," also, have been printed as complete poems 
under individual titles. For titles to a number of poems 
the editor has been indebted to those suggested by other 
modern compilers, notably Mr. Palgrave. 

The editor regrets that he has been prevented by copy- 
right restrictions from representing Stevenson, Field, and 
Lanier. For the same reason, he has been forced to give 
American verse in general less adequate representation 
than British. Whittier is omitted, since his most note- 
worthy lyrics are all too long for the limits of a single 
page. With few exceptions, however, the compiler has 
been able to make unrestricted choice among the treasures 
of English verse, finding his only serious barrier in the 
length of the poems, a good many, such as the inimitable 



PREFACE 

" Auld Robin Gray " of Lady Lindsay, the " Mariners of 
England " of Campbell, and the remarkable ballad, " Helen 
of Kirconnell," exceeding his limits. 

This is not, like most year-books, a collection of cheerful 
mottoes. Many of the poems relate to sorrow or death, 
though the melancholy is never morbid or of the sort which 
depresses the spirit. The compiler makes no claim regard- 
ing his work beyond the general one of having gathered 
within the limits of a single small volume about five hun- 
dred of what seemed to him to be among the most notable 
short poems in the English tongue. 

Thanks are due owners of copyright for the use of nu- 
merous selections. The following poems are included by 
permission of and by special arrangement with Houghton, 
Mifflin & Co., publishers of the works of the respective 
authors: "Fredericksburg," T. B. Aldrich ; "Memory," 
T. B. Aldrich ; " Concord Hymn," R. W. Emerson ; 
"Days," R. W. Emerson; "The Rhodora," R. W. Emer- 
son ; " Old Ironsides," O. W. Holmes ; " Divina Commedia," 
H. W. Longfellow; " Nature," H. W. Longfellow; "Snow 
Flakes," H. W. Longfellow; "The Tide Rises, the Tide 
Falls," H. W. Longfellow; " Auspex," J. R. Lowell; "She 
Came and Went," J. R. Lowell ; " Paradisi Gloria," T. W. 
Parsons; "The Future," E. R. Sill; " Toujours Amour," 
E. C. Stedman. Acknowledgments are also due the fol- 
lowing owners of copyright : 

The Century Co. : 

"On the Life Mask of Abraham Lincoln," R. W. 
Gilder ; " The Secret," G. E. Woodberry. 

Dana Estes &> Co. : 

" Sesostris," L. Mifflin ; " The Flight," L. Mifflin. 

John Lane: 

« Renouncement," Alice Meynell ; " Byron," W. Wat- 
son; "The Glimpse," W. Watson; "Insight," W. 
Watson. 



PREFACE 

Macmillan 6° Co. : 

" My Garden," T. E. Brown. 

G. P. Putna7n's Sons : 

" The Rosary," R. C. Rogers. 

Small, Maynard &* Co. : 

" Love in the Winds," R. Hovey ; " Confided," J. B. 
Tabb ; " In Absence," J. B. Tabb ; From « The Song 
of Myself," W. Whitman ; » O Captain ! My Cap- 
tain ! " W. Whitman. 

Whitaker &* Ray Co. : 

" The Port of Ships," J. Miller. 

Thanks are also extended to Mrs. S. P. McLean Greene, 
for the use of " De Sheepfol'," and, for personal permis- 
sions, to Mr. R. C. Rogers and Prof. G. E. Woodberry. 
The editor would also thank Mr. H. L. Traubel, literary- 
executor of Walt Whitman, for seconding Messrs. Small & 
Maynard's kind permission to include the two selections 
from Whitman's " Leaves of Grass." 

F. L. K. 

Boston, June, igoi. 



CONTENTS 



Abou Ben Adhem 

Absence 

Absence 

Adieu, Adieu ! My Native Shore 
Admonition to a Traveller 



L. Hunt 
Anon. 
J. Donne 
Lord Byron . 
W. Wordsworth 



Advice to a Girl T. Campion 

Advice to a Lover . . . . A non. 

Ae Fond Kiss R. Burns 

Af ton Water R. Burns 

Age of Wisdom, The . . . . W. M. Thackeray 

Airly Beacon C. Kingsley . 

All for Love Lord Byron . 

Angel in the House, An . . . L.Hunt 

Angler's Wish, The . . . . I. Walton 

Annie Laurie Douglas . 

Approach of Age, The . . . W. S. Landor 

April A . Tennyson . 

As Thro' the Land . . . .A. Tennyson . 
Ask Me No More . . . .A. Tennyson . 

Aspiration, The /• Norris 

At a Solemn Music . . . . /• Milton 

At Bethlehem R. Crashaw . 

At Her Window F. Locker-Lampson 

At the Church Gate . . . . W. M. Thackeray 

Auld Lang Syne R. Btirns 

Auspex J. R. Lowell 

Awake, My Heart . . . . R. Bridges 

Bag of the Bee, The .... R. Herrick 

Bannock-Burn R. Burns 

Bard's Epitaph, A . . . . R. Burns 

Battle Hymn of the Republic . . J . W. Howe 

Beauty E. Thurlow 

Beggar Maid, The . . . . A . Tennyson . 

Better Part, The M. A mold 

Better Resurrection, A . . . C. G. Rossetti 

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind . W. Shakespeare 

Bonnie Doon R. Burns 

Bonnie Wee Thing . . . .7?. Burns 

Brave at Home, The . . . . T. B. Read . 

Break, Break, Break . . . . A . Tennyson . 

Breathes There the Man . . . Sir W. Scott 

Bridal Song, A Beaumont and Fletcher 

Bright Star, Were I as Steadfast as 

Thou Art /. Keats . 

Brook-side, The R.M.Milnes. 

Bubble, The W. Drummond 

Bugle, The A . Tennyson . 

Burial of Sir John Moore . C. Wolfe 

xi 



PAGE 

36 
283 
338 

68 
223 
283 
196 
106 

16 
108 
182 
133 
278 

62 

3 1 
355 

97 
216 
293 
252 
365 
251 
332 

27 
267 
226 
129 

275 
64 

155 
*57 

84 
329 
233 
364 
340 

26 
133 

66 
284 
335 
3i3 

179 
190 
285 
63 
156 



CONTENTS 



Burning Babe, The .... R. Southwell . 
By the Sea W. Wordsworth 



Byron 

Care-charmer Sleep 

Care-charming Sleep . 

Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes 

Cavalier's Song, The . 

Changeless, The 

Character of a Happy Life . 

Charlie He's My Darling . 

Cherry-ripe 

Chess-board, The 

Child of a Day . 

Child's Evening Hymn 

Childless Father, The . 

Come Not, When I am Dead 

Come, Rest in this Bosom . 

Come, Thou Monarch of the Vine 

Comin' Through the Rye . 

Concord Hymn . 

Confided .... 

Constancy .... 

Constancy .... 

Constant Lovers, The 

Contemplate All This Work 

Contemplation upon Flowers 

Contentment 

Contentment 

Counsel to Girls . 

Cradle Song, A . 

Crossing the Bar 

Cupid and Campaspe 

Cupid Swallowed 

Daffodils, The . 

Day Returns, My Bosom Burns 

Days 

Death 



The 



Death . 

Death-bed, A 

Death-bed, The 

Death the Leveller 

Delight in God Only . 

Deserted House, The . 

De Sheepfol' 

Destruction of Sennacherib 

Devotion 

Dinna Ask Me . 

Dirge .... 

Dirge for a Soldier 

Dirge for the Year 

Discipline . 

Ditty, A 

Divina Commedia 

Dream-Pedlary . 

Drop, Drop, Slow Tears 

Duncan Gray 

Dying Christian to His Soul 

Earl March Look'd on His Dying 

Child .... 
Echo's Lament for Narcissus 
Elizabeth of Bohemia . 
Enchainment 

England and Switzerland, 1802 
Epilogue to Asolando 
Epitaph on Salathiel Pavy . 



. W. Watson . 
. S. Daniel 
. J. Fletcher . 
. R. Bums 
. W. Motherwell 
. A . H. Clough 
. Sir H. Wotton 
. R. Bums 

T. Campion . 
. R. B. Lytton 

W. S. Landor 

S. Baring-Gould 

W. Wordsworth 
. A . Tennyson . 
. T. Moore 

W. Shakespeare 
. Anon. 

. R. W. Emerson 
. /. B. Tabb . 

Sir C. Sedley 
. Sir J. Stickling 
. A?ion. 
. A . Tennyson 
. H. King 
. R. Greene 
. J. Sylvester . 
. R. Herrick . 
. W. Blake 
. A . Tennyson . 
. J.Lyly . . 
. L . Hunt 

W. Wordsworth 
The R. Burns 

. R. W. Emerson 
. J. Donne 

W. S. Landor 
. J.Aldrich . 
. T. Hood 
. J. Shirley 
. E. Quarles 
. A. Tennyson . 
. S. P. McL. Greene 
. L ord Byron . 

T. Campion . 
. J. Dttnlop 
. W. Shakespeare 
. G. H. Boker . 
. P. B. Shelley . 
. G. Herbert . 
. Sir P. Sidney 
. H. W. Longfellow 

T. L. Beddoes 
. P. Fletcher . 
. R. Bums 
. A . Pope . 



T. Campbell . 
B. Jonson 
Sir H. Wotton 
A . O'Shaughtiessy 
W. Wordsworth 
R. Browning 
B. Jonson 

xii 



CONTENTS 



Epitaph on Shakespeare, An . . /. Milton 

Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke B. Jonson 

Epitaph upon a Child that Died . R. Herrick . 

Epitaph upon a Virgin, An . . R. Herrick . 

Evening Hymn Sir T. Browne 

Fairy Song J. Keats 

Fairy Songs ..... W. Shakespeare 

Farewell, A C. Kingsley . 

Farewell, A R. Bums 

Farewell, A A . Tennyson 

Farewell ! If Ever Fondest Prayer . Lord Byron . 

Farewell to Arms . . . . G. Peele . 

Father's Blessing, A . . . . R. Corbet 

Fawnia R. Greene 

Fear of Death, The . . . .J. Keats . 

Feathers IV. S. Landor 

First Kiss, The T. Watts-Dunton 

Fishermen, The C. Kingsley . 

Flight, The L. Mifflin . 

Flight of Love, The . . . . P. B. Shelley 

Flight of Youth, The . . . . R.H. Stoddard 

Flower in the Crannied Wall . . A . Tennyson 

Folding the Flocks .... Beaumotit and Fletcher 

For a' That and a' That . . . R. Burns 

Fredericksburg T.B. Aldrich 

Freedom in Dress . . . . B. Jonson 

Friends in Paradise . . . . H. Vaughan 

From "The Song of Myself " . . W. Whitman 

Future, The E. R. Sill . 

Gane Were but the Winter Cauld . A . Cunningham 

Girl Describes Her Fawn, The . A . Marvell . 

Give Me More Love or More Disdain T. Carew 

Glimpse, The W. Watson . 

Go, Lovely Rose . . . . E. Waller 

God Moves in a Mysterious Way . W. Cowper . 
Good Great Man, The . .6". T. Coleridge 

Grace for a Child . . . . R . Herrick . 

Green Grow the Rashes O ! . . R.Burns 

Grief E. B. Browning 

Hame, Hame, Hame ! . . . A . Cunningham 

Happy Heart, The . T. Dekker . 

Hark, Hark ! the Lark . . . W.Shakespeare 
Harp that Once through Tara's 

Halls, The T. Moore 

Have'You a Desire ? . . . .P. Hausted . 

Hear, Ye Ladies J. Fletcher 

Heartsease ...... W. S. Landor 

Heath This Night Must Be My Bed, 

The Sir W. Scott 

Her First-born C. T. Turner 

Hester ...... C. Lamb 

Higher Pantheism, The . . . A . Tennyson 

Highland Mary R. Burns 

His Mistress T. Randolph 

Hohenlinden T. Campbell 

Holy Thursday W.Blake 

Home They Brought Her Warrior 

Dead 

Home Thoughts from Abroad . 
Human Seasons, The .... 



Hunting Song .... 

Hymn to Darkness . . . .J. Norris 



A. Tennyson 
R. Browning 
J. Keats 
Sir W. Scott 



Hymn to Diana 

Hymn to God the Father . 

Hymn to the Spirit of Nature 



B. Jonson 
J . Donne 
P. B Shelley 



PAGE 
114 

237 
181 

*9 
272 
308 
312 
220 

69 
i93 
276 
194 

48 
124 
305 

61 
162 
249 
162 
207 
321 

60 
260 

40 

167 
178 
222 
311 
126 
163 
317 
206 
260 
220 
281 
296 
24 
204 



187 
245 
164 

78 

143 

200 
70 

333 
52 
37 

343 

327 

83 
67 

259 
140 

325 

30 

262 

79 



CONTENTS 



I Did but Look 

I Do Not Love Thee for That Fair 

I Fear Thy Kisses, Gentle Maiden . 

I Give Thee Eternity . 

I Prithee Send Me JBack My Heart . 

I Remember, I Remember 

I Travell'd among Unknown Men . 

I Wish I Were by That Dim Lake . 

I'll Never Love Thee More 

Immortality 

In Absence . 

Indian Serenade, The 

Infant Joy . 

Inner Vision, The 

Insight 

Invictus 

It Was Not in the Winter 

Jean .... 

Jenny Kissed Me 

Jesus, Lover of My Soul 

Jock of Hazeldean 

John Anderson . 

Journey Onwards, The 

Joy ... 

Kiss, The . 

Kissing Her Hair 

Lament, A . 

Lament of the Border Widow 

Land Dirge, A . 

Land o' the Leal . 

Last Conqueror, The . 

Last Word, The . 

Lead, Kindly Light . 

Leaf after Leaf . 

Leonard Tarries Long 

Lesson, A . 

Lessons of Nature, The 

Letty's Globe 

Life .... 

Life .... 

Light . 

Light of Other Days, The 

Lines .... 

Lines .... 

Little Black Boy, The 

London, 1802 

London Churches 

Long White Seam, The 

Lost Mistress, The 

Love .... 

Love .... 

Love In the Winds 

Love Is a Sickness 

Love Letters 

Love Me Not for Comely Grace 

Love's Disguises 

Love's Farewell . 

Love's Omnipresence 

Love's Philosophy 

Love's Secret 

Lovesight 

Lucy 

Lullaby 

Lullaby 

Lullaby, A 



T. Otway 
T. Carew 
P. B. Shelley . 
M. Drayton . 
Sir J. Suckling 
T. Hood 
W. Wordsworth 
T. Moore 
J. Graham 
M. A mold 
J. B. Tabb . 
P. B. Shelley 
W. Blake 
W. Wordsworth 
W. Watson . 
W. E. Henley 
T. Hood 
R. Burns 
L. Hunt 
C. Wesley 
Sir W. Scott 
R. Burns 
T. Moore 
C . Pati7iore . 
R. Herrick . 
A . C. Swinburne 
W. Drummond 
Anon. 

J. Webster . 
C. Nairn 
J. Shirley 
M. A mold 
J. H . Newman 
W. S . Landor 
Sir W. Scott 
W. Wordsworth 
W. Drummond 

C. T. Turner 

A . L. Barbatdd 
H. King 

F. W. Bourdillon 
T. Moore 

Sir W. Raleigh 

G. Meredith . 
W. Blake 

W. Wordsworth 
R. M. Milne s 
J. Inge low 
R. Browni?ig 
S. Butler 
G. Herbert . 
R. Hovey 
S . Da?iiel 
E. B. Brcr L v?iing 
A non. 
M. Prior 
M. Drayton . 
J. Sylvester . 
P. B. Shelley 
W. Blake 

D. G. Rossetti 
W. Wordsworth 
T. Dekker . 

A . Tennyson . 
Anon. 



XIV 



CONTENTS 



Maid of Neidpath, The . . . Sir W. Scott . 

Maid's Lament, The . . . . W. S. Landor 

Man Sir J. Davies 

Margaret W. S. Landor 

Mary Morison R. Btirns 

May Margaret T. Marzials . 

May Morning /. Milton 

Meeting C. G. Rossetti 

Meeting R. Browning 

Melancholy /• Fletcher . 

Memorabilia R- Browning- 



Memory 

Memory 

Men of England, Heirs of Glory 

Men of Gotham, The . 

Men of Old, The 

Mermaid Tavern, The 

Merry Lark, The 

Minstrel Boy, The 



W. Shakespeare 
T. B. A Idrich 
P. B. Shelley 
T. L. Peacock 
R. M. Milne s 
J Keats . 
C. Kingsley . 
T. Moore 



Morning Sir W. Davenant 

Morning Prayer R. Herrick . 

Mother's Dream, The . . . W. Barnes . 

Music When Soft Voices Die . . P. B. Shelley 

My Days among the Dead . . . R. Southey . 

My Garden T. E. Brown 

My Heart's in the Highlands . . R. Burns 

My Life Is Like the Summer Rose . R. H. Wilde . 

My Love's Attire . . . . A non. 

My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing . R. Burns 

Mystical Ecstasy, A . . . . F. Quarles 
Natural Comparisons with Perfect 

Love Anon. 

Nature H. W. Longfellow 

Never the Time and the Place . . R. Browning 

New Year's Eve A. Tennyson . 

Night W. Blake 

Night, The H. Vaughan . 

Night Piece to Julia, The . . . R. Herrick . 

Nightingale, The . . . . R. Barnefield 

Nile, The L. Hunt 

Noble Nature, The .... B.Jonson 

Nurse's Song W. Blake 

O Captain ! My Captain ! . . . W. Whitman 

O Come Quickly! .... T. Campion . 

O, Fain Would I Anon. 

O God ! Our Help in Ages Past . /. Watts 

O Mistress Mine . W. Shakespeare 

O, Snatched Away in Beauty's Bloom ! Lord Byron . 

O Swallow, Swallow . . . . A . Tennyson . 

Ode A . O'Shaughnessy 

Ode Written in 1746 . . . . W. Collins . 

Of His Love's Beauty . . . B.Jonson 

Of My Dear Son Gervase Beaumont Sir J. Beaumont 

O That 'Twere Possible . . . A . Tennyson . 
Oh Yet We Trust That Somehow 

Good A . Tennyson . 

Oh, Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast . R. Burns 

Old Age and Death . . . . E. Waller . 

Old Familiar Faces, The . C. Lamb 

Old Ironsides O. W. Holmes 

Old, Old Song, The . C. RMngsley . 

On a Girdle E. Waller . 

On First Looking into Chapman's 

Homer /. Keats . 

On Himself W.S. Landor 



PAGE 
I05 
87 
173 

195 
II 7 
221 
122 
137 

20 
170 
217 
315 
226 
177 
242 
146 
319 
131 
155 
236 
171 
148 
187 
286 
263 
IO9 
289 
298 

40 
36l 

329 
41 
136 
366 
2IO 
112 
3SO 
147 
177 
I 
2l6 
160 
174 

339 

81 

352 

4i 

351 

77 

320 

182 

271 

276 

34 

22 

6 



207 
200 



CONTENTS 



J. Milton 
J. Milton 
J. Milton 

J. Milton 
Lord Byron . 

W. Wordsworth 
J. Milton 
R. W. Gilder 



On Himself R. Herrick 

On His Being Arrived at the Age of 

Twenty-three .... 
On His Blindness .... 
On His Deceased Wife 
On His Own Blindness (To Cyriack 

Skinner) 

On the Castle of Chillon . 

On the Extinction of the Venetian 

Republic 

On the Late Massacre in Piedmont . 
On the Life Mask of Abraham Lincoln 
On the Prospect of Planting Arts and 

Learning in America . . . G. Berkeley . 

On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey F. Beaumont . 

On Woman O. Goldsmith 

One Way of Love . . . . R. Browning 

One Word Is Too Often Profaned . P. B. Shelley 

Over Hill, Over Dale . W. Shakespeare 

Overcome by Love .... Sir P. Sidney 

Ozymandias of Egypt . . . . P. B. Shelley 

Pack, Clouds, Away . . . . T. Heywood . 

Paradisi Gloria T. W. Parsons 

Passionate Shepherd to His Love, The C. Marlowe . 

Per Pacem ad Lucem . . . . A . A . Procter 

Perfect Beauty B.Jonson 

Persuasions to Joy : A Song . . T. Carew 

Petition to Time, A . . . . B. W. Procter 

Phillida and Corydon . . . . N. Breton 

Poet's World, The . . . . P. B. Shelley 

Poet's Hope, A W. E. Channing 

Poet's Song to His Wife, The . . B. W. Procter 

Poetry of Dress, The . . . . R. Herrick . 

Port of Ships, The . . . . /. Miller 

Post Mortem IV. SJiakespeare 

Prayer H. Coleridge . 

Prayer, A R. Southey 

Prayer to Fate, A W. S. Landor 

Preparations Christ Church Ms 

Primrose, The R. Herrick . 

Prophecy, A TV. S. Landor 

Prospice R. Browning 

Proud Maisie Sir W. Scott 

Pulley, The G. Herbert . 

Qua Cursum Ventus . . . . A. H. Clough 

Rainbow, A W. Wordsworth 

Reaper, The W. Wordsworth 

Recessional R. Kipling 

Red, Red Rose. A . . . . R. Burns 

Remember or Forget .... H. A ide . 

Renouncement A . Meynell 

Requiem, A H. King 

Rest M. W. Howland 

Retreat, The H. Vaughan . 

Retrospect, A W. S. Landor 

Reverie of Poor Susan, The . . W. Wordsworth 

Revolutions W. Shakespeare 

Rhodora, The R. W. Emerson 

River of Life, The . . . T. Campbell . 

Robin Redbreast .... W. A lli?igham 

Rock of Ages . . . . • . A . M. Toplady 

Rosaline T. Lodge 

Rosary, The R. C. Rogers . 

Rose Aylmer W. S. Landor 

Rule Britannia J. Thomson . 



PAGE 

. 219 



CONTENTS 



W. Shakespeare 
G. Wither . 
J. R. Lowell . 

W. Wordsworth 
H. Coleridge . 
Lord Byron . 
W. Wordsworth 



Rules and Lessons . . . . H. Vaughan . 

Rustic Joys T. Campion . 

Ruth T. Hood 

Saint John Baptist .... W. Drummond 

Sands of Dee, The .... Charles Kingsley 

Say Not the Struggle Naught Availeth A . H. Clottgh 

Sea Dirge, A W. Shakespeare 

Secret, The G. E. Woodberry 

Serenade E. C. Pinkney 

Serenade T. Hood 

Serenade, A Sir W. Scott 

Sesostris L. Mifflin 

Seven Times One . . . . J. Ingelow 
Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's 

Day? 

Shall I, Wasting in Despair 

She Came and Went .... 

" She Dwelt Among the Untrodden 

Ways" 

" She is Not Fair to Outward View " . 
She Walks in Beauty .... 
She Was a Phantom of Delight . 

Silence T. Hood 

Silent Noon D.G. Rossetti 

Sin G. Herbert . 

Sirens' Song, The . W. Browne . 

Sister, Awake Anon. 

Sleep Sir P. Sidney 

Sleep, Angry Beauty . . . . T. Campion . 

Sleep, Silence' Child .... W. Drtimmond 
Sleeping Beauty, The . . . .6". Rogers 

Slumber Did My Spirit Seal, A . W. Wordsworth 

Snow-flakes H. W. Longfellow 

Soldier Going to the Field, The . Sir W. Davenant 

Soldier's Dream, The . T. Campbell . 

Solitude A . Pope . 

Somewhere or Other . . . . C. G. Rossetti 

Song C. G. Rossetti 

Song A . De Vere . 

Song T. L. Beddoes 

Song W. Shakespeare 

Song T. Carew 

Song T. Campbell . 

Song . Beaumont and Fletcher 

Song A . CShaughnessy 

Song. By Two Voices . . . T. L. Beddoes 

Song for Music, A . . . . A non. 

Song to the Evening Star . . T. Campbell . 

Sonnet, The W. Wordsworth 

Sonnets from the Portuguese . . E. B. Browning 

Sonnets from the Portuguese . . E. B. Browning 

Soul and Body W. Shakespeare 

Sound, Sound the Clarion . . . Sir W. Scott . 

Spacious Firmament on High, The . /. A ddison 

Spring Beaumont and Fletcher 

Spring T. Nash 

Spring, The John Lyly 

St. Agnes' Eve A . Tennyson . 

Stanzas for Music .... Lord Byron . 

Strife, The A. Tennyson . 

Such a Starved Bank of Moss . . R. Browning 

Summum Bonum . . . . R. Browning 

Sunday G. Herbert . 

Supplication A.L. Waring 

Surrender H. King 



PAGE 

.336 
264 
38 

55 
203 
269 
149 

18 
191 
191 
237 

5 £ 

258 

179 
265 
180 

5 
2 

5 



185 

254 

236 

124 

3i5 

196 

263 

118 

49 

29 

239 

65 

42 

185 

362 

175 

250 

73 

It 

240 
132 

192 
189 

I5 2 
248 

90 
304 
259 
310 

82 

98 
101 

94 
358 
298 
224 
341 

96 
231 
353 

37 



CONTENTS 



Tables Turned, The . 

Take, O Take Those Lips Away 

Tears, Idle Tears 

Tell Me Where is Fancy Bred 

"Thalatta" 

That Holy Thing 

That Time of Year 

Threnos .... 

Thy Voice Is Heard . . 

Tide Rises, the Tide Falls, The 

Tiger, The . 

Time and Love • 

Time to Be Wise 

To a Fair Maiden 

To a Lover .... 

To Althea from Prison 

To America .... 

To an Athlete Dying Young 

To Autumn .... 

To a Waterfowl . 

To Blossoms 

ToCelia .... 

To Daffodils 

To Daisies, Not to Shut So Soon 

To Death . 

To Dianeme 

To Helen . 

To His Conscience 

To His Love 

To His Mistress . 

To Lucasta, Going Beyond the Seas 

To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars 

To Marguerite 

To Mary Unwin . 

To Night . 

To Night . 

To One in Paradise 

To Perilla . 

To Primroses 

To Sleep . 

To Stella 

To Thomas Moore 

To the Cuckoo . 

To the Fringed Gentian 

To the Lord General Cromwell 

To the Moon 

To the Moon. 

To the Nightingale 

To the Rose : A Song 

To the Skylark . 

Tom Bowling 

To-morrow . 

Too Late 

Too Late I Stayed 

Toujours Amour . 

Toys, The . 

True Beauty 

True Greatness . 

True Lent, A 

True Rest . 

Truth Is Great . 

Twa Corbies, The 

Under the Greenwood 

Under the Lindens 

Up-hill 



Tree 



W. Wordsworth 
W. Shakespeare 
A . Tennyson 
W. Shakespeare 
J. B. Brown . 
G. Mac Donald 
W. Shakespeare 
P. B. Shelley 
A . Tennyson 
H. W. Longfellow 
TV. Blake 
W. Shakespeare 
W. S. Landor 
IV. S. Landor 
Sir J. Suckling 
R. Lovelace . 
G. H. Boker . 
A. E. Housman 
J. Keats . 
W. C. Bryant 
R. Herrick . 
B.J orison 
R. Herrick . 
R. Herrick . 
R. Herrick 
R. Herrick . 
E.A.Poe 
R Herrick . 

W. Shakespeare 
R. Herrick . 
R. Lovelace . 
R. Lovelace . 
M. Arnold 

IV. Cowper . 
/. B. White . 

P. B. Shelley 
E.A.Poe . 
R. Herrick . 

R. Herrick . 

W. Wordsworth 

Sir P. Sidney 

Lord Byron . 

W. Wordsworth 

W. C. Bryant 
J. Milton 

Sir P. Sidney 

P. B. Shelley 
J. Milton 

R. Herrick . 

W. Wordsworth 

C. Dibdin 
J. Collins 

D. M. M. Craik 
W. R. Spencer 

E. C. Stedman 
C. Patmore . 
T. Carew 
Lady E. Carew 
R. Herrick . 

J. S. Dwight . 
C. Patmore . 
Anon. 

W. Shakespeare 
W. S . Landor 
C. G. R osselti 



XVlll 



PORTRAITS 



PAGE 

•* William Shakespeare .... Frontispiece 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ... 29 

"Percy Bysshe Shelley 48 

A Edgar Allan Poe 76 

^Robert Browning 96 

n John Milton 114 

*Sir Walter Scott 140 

-Joseph Addison 164 

» William Cowper 206 

-Alfred Tennyson 224 

; Thomas Campbell 253 

*John Keats 274 

Lord Byron 298 

Thomas Moore 330 

\Robert Burns 344 

-William Wordsworth 363 



Arthu Bom u ?8x9 lough ' Jfanuarg tfje JFir^t 



THE NOBLE NATURE 

It is not growing like a tree 
In bulk, doth make Man better be ; 
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, 
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere : 
A lily of a day 
Is fairer far in May, 
Although it fall and die that night — 
It was the plant and flower of Light. 
In small proportions we just beauties see ; 
And in short measures life may perfect be. 

Ben Jonson 



THE PULLEY 

When God at first made Man, 
Having a glass of blessings standing by ; 
Let us (said He) pour on him all we can : 
Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, 

Contract into a span. 

So strength first made a way ; 
Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure : 
When almost all was out, God made a stay, 
Perceiving that alone, of all His treasure, 

Rest in the bottom lay. 

For if I should (said He) 
Bestow this jewel also on My creature, 
He would adore My gifts instead of Me, 
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature, 

So both should losers be. 

Yet let him keep the rest, 
But keep them with repining restlessness : 
Let him be rich and weary, that at least, 
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness 

May toss him to My breast. 

George Herbert 



Sanuarg tfje Second 



TRUE BEAUTY 

He that loves a rosy cheek 

Or a coral lip admires, 
Or from starlike eyes doth seek 

Fuel to maintain his fires ; 
As old Time makes these decay, 
So his flames must waste away. 

But a smooth and steadfast mind, 
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, 

Hearts with equal love combined, 
Kindle never-dying fires : — 

Where these are not, I despise 

Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. 

Thomas Carew 



SHE IS NOT FAIR TO OUTWARD VIEW 

She is not fair to outward view 

As many maidens be ; 
Her loveliness I never knew 

Until she smiled on me. 
Oh then I saw her eye was bright, 
A well of love, a spring of light. 

But now her looks are coy and cold, 

To mine they ne'er reply, 
And yet I cease not to behold 

The love-light in her eye : 
Her very frowns are fairer far 
Than smiles of other maidens are. 

Hartley Coleridge 



Sanuarg tfje ftijirti 



VIRTUE IMMORTAL 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky : 
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; 
For thou must die. 

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, 
Thy root is ever in its grave, 

And thou must die. 

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie, 
My music shows ye have your closes, 
And all must die. 

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, 
Like seasoned timber, never gives ; 
But though the whole world turn to coal, 
Then chiefly lives. 

George Herbert 



ON THE CASTLE OF CHILLON 

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind ! 
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art, 
For there thy habitation is the heart — 
The heart which love of Thee alone can bind ; 

And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd, 
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 
Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 

Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place 

And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod, 

Until his very steps have left a trace 

Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
By Bonnivard ! May none those marks efface ! 
For they appeal from tyranny to God. 

Lord Byron 
3 



Sanuarg tije iFourtfj 



A PETITION TO TIME 

Touch us gently, Time ! 

Let us glide adown thy stream 
Gently — as we sometimes glide 

Through a quiet dream. 
Humble voyagers are we, 
Husband, wife, and children three — 
(One is lost — an angel fled 
To the azure overhead ! ) 

Touch us gently, Time ! 

We've not proud nor soaring wings, 
Our ambition, our content, 

Lies in simple things. 
Humble voyagers are we, 
O'er life's dim, unsounded sea, 
Seeking only some calm clime ; — 
Touch us gently, gentle Time. 

Bryan Waller Procter 



THE "OLD, OLD SONG" 

When all the world is young, lad, 

And all the trees are green ; 
And every goose a swan, lad, 

And every lass a queen ; 
Then hey for boot and horse, lad, 

And round the world away ; 
Young blood must have its course, lad, 

And every dog his day. 

When all the world is old, lad, 

And all the trees are brown ; 
And all the sport is stale, lad, 

And all the wheels run down : 
Creep home, and take your place there, 

The spent and maim'd among : 
God grant you find one face there 

You loved when all was young. 

Charles Kingsley 
4 



Sanuarg tfje JFtftfj 



SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN 
WAYS 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove ; 
A maid whom there were none to praise, 

And very few to love. 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half-hidden from the eye ! 
— Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be ; 
But she is in her grave, and, oh, 

The difference to me ! 

William Wordsworth 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY 

She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies, 
And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes; 
Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impair'd the nameless grace 
Which waves in every raven tress 
Or softly lightens o'er her face, 
Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek and o'er that brow 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 

The smiles that win, the tints that glow 

But tell of days in goodness spent, — 

A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent. 

Lord Byron 
5 



Sanuarg ttje Sixtfj Hart iTed C ?8 e 4 r 9 idse ' 



OLD AGE AND DEATH 

The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; 
So calm are we when passions are no more. 
For then we know how vain it was to boast 
Of fleeting things, too certain to be lost. 
Clouds of affection from our younger eyes 
Conceal that emptiness which age descries. 

The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, 

Lets in new light through chinks that time has made : 

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become, 

As they draw near to their eternal home. 

Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, 

That stand upon the threshold of the new. 

Edmund Waller 



LIGHT 

The night has a thousand eyes, 

And the day but one ; 
Yet the light of the bright world dies 

With the dying sun. 

The mind has a thousand eyes, 

And the heart but one ; 
Yet the light of a whole life dies 

When love is done. 

Francis William Bourdillon 



Sanuarg tije Se&mtfj 



SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT 

She was a Phantom of delight 
When first she gleam'd upon my sight; 
A lovely Apparition, sent 
To be a moment's ornament ; 
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; 
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 
But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful dawn; 
A dancing shape, an image gay, 
To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin-liberty; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet; 

A creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food, 

For transient 'sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine ; 
A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveller between life and death ; 
The reason firm, the temperate will, 
Endurance, foresight, strength and skill ; 
A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel-light. 

William Wordsworth 



Sanuarg tfje 3Eigtrtlj 



JOHN ANDERSON 

John Anderson my jo, John, 
When we were first acquent 
Your locks were like the raven, 
Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is bald, John, 
Your locks are like the snow ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 
John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 
We clamb the hill thegither, 
And mony a canty day, John, 
We've had wi' ane anither: 
Now we maun totter down, John, 
But hand in hand we'll go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 
John Anderson my jo. 

Robert Burns 



LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY 

The fountains mingle with the river 
And the rivers with the ocean, 
The winds of heaven mix for ever 
With a sweet emotion ; 
Nothing in the world is single, 
All things by a law divine 
In one another's being mingle — 
Why not I with thine ? 

See the mountains kiss high heaven, 
And the waves clasp one another ; 
No sister-flower would be forgiven 
If it disdain'd its brother: 
And the sunlight clasps the earth, 
And the moonbeams kiss the sea — 
What are all these kissings worth, 
If thou kiss not me ? 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 
8 



Sanuarg tije Nintij 



THE LAND O' THE LEAL 

I'm wearing awa', Jean, 

Like snaw when it's thaw, Jean, 

I'm wearing awa' 

To the land o' the leal. 
There's nae sorrow there, Jean, 
There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, 
The day is aye fair 

In the land o' the leal. 

Ye were aye leal and true, Jean, 
Your task's ended noo, Jean, 
And I'll welcome you 

To the land o' the leal. 
Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean, 
She was baith guid and fair, Jean ; 
Oh we grudged her right sair 

To the land o' the leal ! 

Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean, 
My soul langs to be free, Jean, 
And angels wait on me 

To the land o' the leal. 
Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean, 
This warld's care is vain, Jean ; 
We'll meet and aye be fain 

In the land o' the leal. 

Lady Carolina Nairn 



\ 



Sanuarg tije Stent!} 



COMIN' THROUGH THE RYE 

Gin a body meet a body 

Comin' through the rye, 
Gin a body kiss a body, 

Need a body cry ? 
Every lassie has her laddie, — 

Ne'er a ane hae I ; 
Yet a' the lads they smile at me 

When comin' through the rye. 
Amang the train there is a swain 

I dearly lo'e myseV j 
But whaur his ha?ne, or what his name, 
I dinna care to tell. 

Gin a body meet a body 
Comin' frae the town, 
Gin a body greet a body, 

Need a body frown ? 
Every lassie has her laddie, — 

Ne'er a ane hae I ; 
Yet a' the lads they smile at me 
When comin' through the rye. 
Amang the train there is a swain 

I dearly lo^e myseV j 
But whaur his hame, or what his name, 
I dinna care to tell. 

Anonymous 



Samtarg tije ^Etefaenttr 



PARADISI GLORIA 

There is a city, builded by no hand, 
And unapproachable by sea or shore, 

And unassailable by any band 

Of storming soldiery for evermore. 

There we no longer shall divide our time 
By acts or pleasures, — doing petty things 

Of work or warfare, merchandise or rhyme ; 
But we shall sit beside the silver springs 

That flow from God's own footstool, and behold 
Sages and martyrs, and those blessed few 

Who loved us once and were beloved of old, 
To dwell with them and walk with them anew, 

In alternations of sublime repose, 

Musical motion, the perpetual play 
Of every faculty that Heaven bestows 

Through the bright, busy, and eternal day. 

Thomas William Parsons 



TO NIGHT 

Mysterious Night ! when our first parent knew 

Thee from report divine, and heard thy name, 

Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, 

This glorious canopy of light and blue ? . 

Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent dew, 

Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, 

Hesperus with the host of heaven came, 

And lo ! creation widened in man's view. 

Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed 

Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find, 

While fly, and leaf, and insect lay revealed, 

That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind ! 

Why do we, then, shun Death with anxious strife ? — 

If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life ? 

Joseph Blanco White 



Sanuarg tlje ftfoetftij 



LINES 

WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS EXECUTION 

E'en such is Time, that takes on trust 
Our youth, our joys, our all we have, 

And pays us but with earth and dust; 
Who, in the dark and silent grave, 

When we have wandered all our ways, 

Shuts up the story of our days : 

But from this earth, this grave, this dust, 

My God shall raise me up, I trust. 

Sir Walter Raleigh 



UP-HILL 

Does the road wind up-hill all the way ? 

Yes, to the very end. 
Will the day's journey take the whole long day ? 

From morn to night, my friend. 

But is there for the night a resting-place ? 

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. 
May not the darkness hide it from my face ? 

You cannot miss that inn. 

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night ? 

Those who have gone before. 
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight ? 

They will not keep you standing at that door. 

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? 

Of labour you shall find the sum. 
Will there be beds for me and all who seek ? 

Yea, beds for all who come. 

Christina Georgina Rossetti 



Sanuarg tije Eijtoottt) 



CROSSING THE BAR 

Sunset and evening star, 

And one clear call for me ! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar, 

When I put out to sea, 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 

Too full for sound and foam, 
When that which drew from out the boundless deep 

Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell, 

And after that the dark ! 
And may there be no sadness of farewell, 

When I embark : 

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place, 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have crost the bar. 

Alfred Tennyson 



DEATH 

Death stands above me, whispering low 

I know not what into my ear; 
Of his strange language all I know 

Is, there is not a word of fear. 

Walter Savage Landor 



13 



Sanuarg tjje jFourteentf) 



DEATH THE LEVELLER 

The glories of our blood and state 

Are shadows, not substantia] things ; 
There is no armour against fate ; 
Death lays his icy hand on kings : 
Sceptre and Crown 
Must tumble down, 
And in the dust be equal made 
With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Some men with swords may reap the field, 
And plant fresh laurels where they kill : 
But their strong nerves at last must yield ; 
They tame but one another still : 
Early or late 
They stoop to fate, 
And must give up their murmuring breath 
When they, pale captives, creep to death. 

The garlands wither on your brow ; 

Then boast no more your mighty deeds; 
Upon Death's purple altar now 

See where the victor- victim bleeds : 
Your heads must come 
To the cold tomb ; 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. 

James Shirley 



14 



Sanuarg tfje JFtfteentfj 



TEARS, IDLE TEARS 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean. 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy autumn fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, 
That brings our friends up from the under world ; 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge, — 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

Dear as remember'd kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret, — 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more. 

Alfred Tennyson 



LIFE 

Life ! I know not what thou art, 
But know that thou and I must part ; 
And when, or how, or where we met 
I own to me's a secret yet. 

Life ! we've been long together 
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear — 
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ; 
— Then steal away, give little warning, 

Choose thine own time ; 
Say not Good Night, — but in some brighter clime 

Bid me Good Morning. 

Anna Lcetitia Barbaulct, 
IS 



Sanuarg tije Sixteenth Edm D u i n e d d ? s p 9 e 9 nser * 



AFTON WATER 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream ! 

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen, 
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, 
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair ! 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, 
Far marked with the courses of clear winding rills ; 
There daily I wander as noon rises high, 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow ; 
There oft as mild Evening weeps over the lea, 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, 

And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ; 

How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 

As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave ! 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream ! 

Robert Burns 

JENNY KISSED ME 

Jenny kissed me when we met, 

Jumping from the chair she sat in. 
Time, you thief ! who love to get 

Sweets into your list, put that in. 
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad; 

Say that health and wealth have missed me ; 
Say I'm growing old, but add — 

Jennie kissed me ! 

Leigh Hunt 
16 



Sanuarg tije Sebcnteentf) 



THE DEATH -BED 

We watch'd her breathing thro' the night, 

Her breathing soft and low, 
As in her breast the wave of life 

Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seem'd to speak, 

So slowly moved about, 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her living out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears, 

Our fears our hopes belied — 
We thought her dying when she slept, 

And sleeping when she died. 

For when the morn came dim and sad 

And chill with early showers, 
Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 

Another morn than ours. 

Thomas Hood 



A DEATH -BED 

Her suffering ended with the day, 

Yet lived she at its close, 
And breathed the long, long night away 

In statue-like repose. 

But when the sun in all his state 

Illumed the eastern skies, 
She passed through Glory's morning gate 

And walked in Paradise. 

James Aldrich 



17 



Samtarg tfje lEigtrteentl} 



THE SECRET 

Nightingales warble about it, 

All night under blossom and star ; 
The wild swan is dying without it, 

And the eagle cryeth afar; 
The sun he doth mount but to find it, 

Searching the green earth o'er; 
But more doth a man's heart mind it, 

Oh, more, more, more ! 

Over the gray leagues of ocean 

The infinite yearneth alone ; 
The forests with wandering emotion 

The thing they know not intone ; 
Creation arose but to see it, 

A million lamps in the blue ; 
But a lover he shall be it 

If one sweet maid is true. 

George Edward Woodberry 



TO DIANEME 

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes 
Which starlike sparkle in their skies ; 
Nor be you proud, that you can see 
All hearts your captives ; yours yet free : 
Be you not proud of that rich hair 
Which wantons with the lovesick air ; 
Whenas that ruby which you wear, 
Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, 
Will last to be a precious stone 
When all your world of beauty's gone. 

Robert Herrick 



18 



Edg B a ;mX Poe ' Samtaro tfjc Nineteenth 



A WISH 

Mine be a cot beside the hill ; 

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear ; 
A willowy brook that turns a mill, 

With many a fall shall linger near. 

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch 
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; 

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, 
And share my meal, a welcome guest. 

Around my ivied porch shall spring 

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; 

And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing 
In russet-gown and apron blue. 

The village church among the trees, 

Where first our marriage vows were given, 

With merry peals shall swell the breeze 
And point with taper spire to Heaven. 

Sa?nuel Rogers 



AN EPITAPH UPON A VIRGIN 

Here a solemn fast we keep, 
While all beauty lies asleep ; 
Hush'd be all things, no noise here 
But the toning of a tear; 
Or a sigh of such as bring 
Cowslips for her covering. 

Robert Herrick 



19 



Sanuarg tfjc Sfaentietf) 



DIRGE 

Fear no more the heat o' the sun 
Nor the furious winter's rages ; 

Thou thy worldly task hast done, 

Home art gone and ta'en thy wages : 

Golden lads and girls all must, 

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 

Fear no more the frown o' the great, 
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; 

Care no more to clothe and eat ; 
To thee the reed is as the oak : 

The sceptre, learning, physic, must 

All follow this, and come to dust. 

Fear no more the lightning-flash 

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; 

Fear not slander, censure rash ; 

Thou hast finish 'd joy and moan : 

All lovers young, all lovers must 

Consign to thee, and come to dust. 

William Shakespeare 



MEETING 

The gray sea, and the long black land ; 
And the yellow half-moon large and low ; 
And the startled little waves, that leap 
In fiery ringlets from their sleep, 
As I gain the cove with pushing prow, 
And quench its speed in the slushy sand. 

Then a mile of warm, sea-scented beach ; 

Three fields to cross, till a farm appears : 

A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch 

And blue spurt of a lighted match, 

And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears, 

Than the two hearts, beating each to each. 

Robert Browning 



Sanuarg tijc 2ttonttg4trst 



THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES 

I have had playmates, I have had companions, 

In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days ; 

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, 
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies ; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I loved a Love once, fairest among women : 
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her — 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man : 
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ; 
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood, 
Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, 
Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, 
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling ? 
So might we talk of the old familiar faces, 

How some they have died, and some they have left me, 
And some are taken from me ; all are departed ; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

Charles La7nb 



Sanuarg tfje Etomtg=seconl3 Ky 



BYRON 

Too avid of earth's bliss, he was of those 

Whom Delight flies because they give her chase. 

Only the odour of her wild hair blows 

Back in their faces hungering for her face. 

William Watson 



OH, WERT THOU IN. THE CAULD BLAST 

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea ; 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 
Thy bield should be my bosom, 

To share it a', to share it a'. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 
The desert were a paradise 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 
Or were I monarch o' the globe, 

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign ; 
The brightest jewel in my crown 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 

Robert Burns 

■ 



Char Al s ed K ] i 8 1 7 g 5 Sley, Sanuarg tije ffitoentg^ttli 



THE CHESS-BOARD 

My little love, do you remember, 

Ere we were grown so sadly wise, 
Those evenings in the bleak December, 
Curtained warm'from the snowy weather, 
When you and I played chess together, 

Checkmated by each other's eyes ? 

Ah ! still I see your soft white hand 
Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight; 

Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand ; 
The double Castles guard the wings ; 
The Bishop, bent on distant things, 
Moves, sidling, through the fight. 

Our fingers touch ; our glances meet, 
And falter ; falls your golden hair 

Against my cheek ; your bosom sweet 
Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen 
Rides slow, her soldiery all between, 

And checks me unaware. 

Ah me ! the r little battle's done : 
Dispers'd is all its chivalry. 
Full many a move since then have we 
'Mid life's perplexing checkers made, 
And many a game with Fortune played ; 

What is it we have won ? 

This, this at least, — if this alone : 

That never, never, nevermore, 

As in those old still nights of yore, 

(Ere we were grown so sadly wise,) 

Can you and I shut out the skies, 
Shut out the world and wintry weather, 

And, eyes exchanging warmth with eyes, 
Play chess, as then we played together. 

Robert Bulwer-Lytton 



-3 



Sattuarg tfje Etoentg^fourtfj 



HAME, HAME, HAME ! 

Hame, hame, hame ! oh hame I fain would be ! 

Oh hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! 

When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree, 

The lark shall sing me hame to my ain countrie. 

Hame, hame, hame / oh havie I fain would be ! 

Oh hame, hame, hame, to 7ny ai?i countrie / 

The green leaf o' loyaltie's beginning now to fa' ; 
The bonnie white rose, it is withering an' a' ; 
But we'll water it wi' the bluid of usurping tyrannie, 
And fresh it shall blaw in my ain countrie ! 
Ha7)ie, hame, hame ! oh hame I fain would be / 
Oh hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie / 

Oh there's nocht now frae ruin my countrie can save, 
But the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave, 
That a' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie 
May rise again and fight for their ain countrie. 
Hame, hame, hame / oh hame I fain would be / 
Oh hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie / 

The great now are gone wha attempted to save, 
The green grass is growing abune their grave ; 
Yet the sun through the mist seems to promise to me, 
" I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie." 
Ha7ne, hame, hame / oh hame I fain would be! 
Oh hame, hame, ha?ne / to my ain countrie / 

Allan Cunningham 



24 



Ro Bom ? 7 u 5 r 9 ns ' Sanuarg tije ffiton%fiftjj 



THE RETREAT 

Happy those early days, when I 
Shined in my Angel-infancy ! 
Before I understood this place 
Appointed for my second race, 
Or taught my soul to fancy aught 
But a white, celestial thought ; 
When yet I had not walk'd above 
A mile or two from my first Love, 
And looking back, at that short space 
Could see a glimpse of His bright face ; 
When on some gilded cloud or flower 
My gazing soul would dwell an hour, 
And in those weaker glories spy 
Some shadows of eternity; 
Before I taught my tongue to wound 
My conscience with a sinful sound, 
Or had the black art to dispense 
A several sin to every sense, 
But felt through all this fleshly dress 
Bright shoots of everlastingness. 

Oh how I long to travel back, 
And tread again that ancient track! 
That I might once more reach that plain 
Where first I left my glorious train ; 
From whence th' enlighten'd spirit sees 
That shady City of palm trees ! 
But ah ! my soul with too much stay 
Is drunk, and staggers in the way : — 
Some men a forward motion love, 
But I by backward steps would move ; 
And when this dust falls to the urn, 
In that state I came, return. 

Henry Vaughan 



25 



Sanuarg tije 2Ctoentg=stxtfj 



LOVE'S SECRET 

Never seek to tell thy love, 
Love that never told can be ; 

For the gentle wind doth move 
Silently, invisibly. 

I told my love, I told my love, 

I told her all my heart, 
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears : 

Ah ! she did depart. 

Soon after she was gone from me 

A traveller came by, 
Silently, invisibly : 

He took her with a sigh. 



William Blake 



BONNIE DOON 



Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon 

How can ye blume sae fair ! 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae f u' o' care ! 

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird 

That sings upon the bough ; 
Thou minds me o' the happy days 

When my fause Luve was true. 

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird 

That sings beside thy mate ; 
For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 

And wist na o' my fate. 

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon 

To see the woodbine twine, 
And ilka bird sang o' its love ; 

And sae did I o' mine. 

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Frae aff its thorny tree ; 
And my fause luver staw the rose, 
But left the thorn wi' me. 

Robert Burns 
26 



Sanuarg tlje ©toents*ae&eiuij 



AT THE CHURCH GATE 

Although I enter not, 
Yet round about the spot 

Ofttimes I hover; 
And near the sacred gate, 
With longing eyes I wait, 

Expectant of her. 

The Minster bell tolls out 
Above the city's rout 

And noise and humming; 
They've hush'd the Minster bell; 
The organ 'gins to swell : 

She's coming ! she's coming ! 

My Lady comes at last, 
Timid and stepping fast 

And hastening hither, 
With modest eyes down-cast : 
She comes — she's here — she's pass'd. 

May heaven go with her ! 

Kneel undisturb'd, fair Saint ! 
Pour out your praise or plaint 

Meekly and duly ! 
I will not enter there 
To sully your pure prayer 

With thoughts unruly. 

But suffer me to pace 
Round the forbidden place, 

Lingering a minute ! 
Like outcast spirits who wait 
And see through heaven's gate 

Angels within it. 

Willia7n Makepeace Thackeray 



27 



Samtarg tije SDtDentg=etgijtt) 



TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS 

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind 

That from the nunnery 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, 

To war and arms I fly. 

True, a new mistress now I chase, 

The first foe in the field ; 
And with a stronger faith embrace 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such 

As you too shall adore ; 
I could not love thee, Dear, so much, 

Loved I not Honour more. 

Richard Lovelace 



TOO LATE I STAYED 

Too late I stayed, — forgive the crime ! 

Unheeded flew the hours : 
How noiseless falls the foot of Time 

That only treads on flowers ! 

And who, with clear account, remarks 

The ebbings of his glass, 
When all its sands are diamond sparks, 

That dazzle as they pass ? 

Oh, who to sober measurement 

Time's happy swiftness brings, 
When birds of paradise have lent 

Their plumage to his wings ? 

William Robert Spencer 



2S 



Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
1807-1882 



Sanuarjj tije Etoentpnintij 



SNOW-FLAKES 

Out of the bosom of the Air, 

Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, 
Over the woodlands brown and bare, 
Over the harvest fields forsaken, 
Silent and soft and slow 
Descends the snow. 

Even as our cloudy fancies take 

Suddenly shape in some divine expression, 
Even as the troubled heart doth make 
In the white countenance confession, 
The troubled sky reveals 
The grief it feels. 

This is the poem of the air, 

Slowly in silent syllables recorded ; 
This is the secret of despair, 

Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, 
Now whispered and revealed 
To wood and field. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 



A PROPHECY 

Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak 
Four not exempt from pride some future day. 

Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek, 
Over my open volume you will say, 
This man loved me / " then rise and trip away. 

Walter Savage Landor 



29 



Samtarg tfje Eijirtteti) 



Born 1775 



HYMN TO DIANA 

Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair, 

Now the sun is laid to sleep, 
Seated in thy silver chair 

State in wonted manner keep : 
Hesperus entreats thy light, 
Goddess excellently bright 

Earth, let not thy envious shade 

Dare itself to interpose ; 
Cynthia's shining orb was made 

Heaven to clear when day did close: 
Bless us then with wished sight, 
Goddess excellently bright. 

Lay thy bow of pearl apart 

And thy crystal-shining quiver ; 
Give unto the flying hart 

Space to breathe, how short soever : 
Thou that mak'st a day of night, 
Goddess excellently bright ! 

Ben Jonson 



TO THE MOON 

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies ! 

How silently, and with how wan a face ! 

What, may it be that e'en in heavenly place 

That busy archer his sharp arrows tries ! 

Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes 

Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case, 

I read it in thy looks ; thy languish'd grace, 

To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. 

Then, e'en of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, 

Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit? 

Are beauties there as proud as here they be ? 

Do they above love to be loved, and yet 

Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? 

Do they call virtue, there, ungratefulness ? 

Sir Philip Sidney 
30 



Sanuarg tlje S^tttg^first 



ANNIE LAURIE 

Maxwelton braes are bonnie 
Where early fa's the dew, 
And it's there that Annie Laurie 
Gie'd me her promise true, — 
Gie'd me her promise true, 
Which ne'er forgot will be ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I'd lay me doune and dee. 

Her brow is like the snaw-drift ; 
Her throat is like the swan ; 
Her face it is the fairest 
That e'er the sun shone on, — 
That e'er the sun shone on ; 
And dark blue is her ee ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I'd lay me doune and dee. 

Like dew on the gowan lying 
Is the fa o' her fairy feet ; 
Like the winds in summer sighing, 
Her voice is low and sweet, — 
Her voice is low and sweet ; 
And she's a' the world to me ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I'd lay me doune and dee. 

Douglas of Fingland 



31 



jFrtruarg flje jFtrst 



LETTY'S GLOBE 

When Letty had scarce pass'd her third glad year, 

And her young, artless words began to flow, 

One day we gave the child a colour'd sphere 

Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know, 

By tint and outline, all its sea and land. 

She patted all the world ; old empires peep'd 

Between her baby fingers ; her soft hand 

Was welcome at all frontiers. How she leap'd, 

And laugh'd and prattled in her world-wide bliss ; 

But when we turn'd her sweet unlearned eye 

On our own isle, she rais'd a joyous cry, 

Oh ! yes, I see it, Letty's home is there ! " 

And, while she hid all England with a kiss, 

Bright over Europe fell her golden hair ! 

Charles Tennyson-Turner 



THY VOICE IS HEARD 

Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums 

That beat to battle where he stands ; 
Thy face across his fancy comes, 

And gives the battle to his hands : 
A moment, while the trumpets blow, 

He sees his brood about thy knee ; 
The next, like fire he meets the foe, 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 

Alfred Tennyson 



JFtbruarg tf)e SeconU 



REST 

I lay me down to sleep, 
With little thought or care 

Whether my waking find 
Me here, or there. 

A bowing, burdened head 
That only asks to rest, 

Unquestioning, upon 
A loving breast. 

My good right hand forgets 

Its cunning now ; 
To march the weary march 

I know not how. 

I am not eager, bold, 

Nor strong, — all that is past ; 
I am ready not to do 

At last, at last. 

My half-day's work is done, 
And this is all my part, — 

I give a patient God, 
My patient heart ; 

And grasp His banner still, 
Though all its blue be dim ; 

These stripes, no less than stars, 
Lead after Him. 



Mary Woolsey Howland 



33 



jFefrruarg «je SHjtai SlTilh^vZZ 



OH YET WE TRUST THAT SOMEHOW GOOD 

Oh yet we trust that somehow good 

Will be the final goal of ill, 

To pangs of nature, sins of will, 
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet ; 

That not one life shall be destroy'd, 

Or cast as rubbish to the void, 
When God hath made the pile complete ; 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 

That not a moth with vain desire 

Is shrivelPd in a fruitless fire, 
Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold, we know not anything ; 
I can but trust that good shall fall 
At last — far off — at last, to all, 

And every winter change to spring. 

So runs my dream : but what am I ? 

An infant crying in the night : 

An infant crying for the light: 
And with no language but a cry. 

Alfred Tennyson 



34 



jftfiruarg tije iFourtt} 



RECESSIONAL 

JUNK 22, 1897 

God of our fathers, known of old — 

Lord of our far-flung battle-line — 
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold 

Dominion over palm and pine — 
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
Lest we forget, lest we forget ! 

The tumult and the shouting dies — 
The captains and the kings depart — 

Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, 
An humble and a contrite heart. 

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 

Lest we forget, lest we forget ! 

Far-call'd our navies melt away — 

On dune and headland sinks the fire — 

Lo, all our pomp of yesterday 
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! 

Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, 

Lest we forget, lest we forget ! 

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose 
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe — 

Such boasting as the Gentiles use 
Or lesser breeds without the Law — 

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 

Lest we forget, lest we forget ! 

For heathen heart that puts her trust 

In reeking tube and iron shard — 
All valiant dust that builds on dust, 

And guarding calls not Thee to guard — 
For frantic boast and foolish word, 
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord ! 

Amen ! 
Rudyard Kipling 



35 



jftbruarg tlje jfaftij 



ABOU BEN ADHEM 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
And saw within the moonlight in his room, 
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, 
An angel writing in a book of gold : 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, 
And to the presence in the room he said, 
What writest thou ? " — The vision raised its head, 
And, with a look made of all sweet accord, 
Answered, " The names of those who love the Lord." 
And is mine one? " said Abou. " Nay, not so," 
Replied the angel. — Abou spoke more low, 
But cheerly still ; and said, " I pray thee, then, 
Write me as one that loves his fellow men." 

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night 

It came again, with a great wakening light, 

And showed the names whom love of God had bless'd, - 

And, lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest ! 

Leigh Hunt 



36 



jfebruarg tije <Sixtj) 



SURRENDER 

My once-dear Love! — hapless, that I no more 

Must call thee so. . . . The rich affection's store 

That fed our hopes, lies now exhaust and spent, 

Like sums of treasure unto bankrupts lent : — 

We that did nothing study but the way 

To love each other, with which thoughts the day 

Rose with delight to us, and with them set, 

Must learn the hateful art, how to forget ! 

— Fold back our arms, take home our fruitless loves, 

That must new fortunes try, like turtle doves 

Dislodged from their haunts. We must in tears 

Unwind a love knit up in many years. 

In this one kiss I here surrender thee 

Back to thyself ; so thou again art free. 

Henry King 



HIS MISTRESS 

I have a mistress, for perfections rare 

In every eye, but in my thoughts most fair. 

Like tapers on the altar shine her eyes ; 

Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice ; 

And wheresoe'er my fancy would begin, 

Still her perfection lets religion in. 

We sit and talk, and kiss away the hours 

As chastely as the morning dews kiss flowers. 

I touch her, like my beads, with devout care, 

And come unto my courtship as my prayer. 

Thomas Randolph 



37 



JTebruarg ti)e Sebentf} 



RUTH 

She stood breast high amid the corn, 
Clasped by the golden light of morn, 
Like the sweetheart of the sun, 
Who many a glowing kiss had won. 

On her cheek an autumn flush 
Deeply ripened ; such a blush 
In the midst of brown was born, 
Like red poppies grown with corn. 

Round her eyes her tresses fell, 
Which were blackest none could tell ; 
But long lashes veiled a light 
That had else been all too bright. 

And her hat, with shady brim, 
Made her tressy forehead dim. 
Thus she stood amid the stooks, 
Praising God with sweetest looks. 

Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean 
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; 
Lay thy sheaf adown and come, 
Share my harvest and my home. 

Thomas Hood 



38 



jftbruarg tfje ligJjti) 



A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA 

A wet sheet and a flowing sea, 

A wind that follows fast 
And fills the white and rustling sail 

And bends the gallant mast ; 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 

While like the eagle free 
Away the good ship flies, and leaves 

Old England on the lee. 

Oh, for a soft and gentle wind ! 

I heard a fair one cry ; 
But give to me the snoring breeze 

And white waves heaving high ; 
And white waves heaving high, my lads, 

The good ship tight and free — 
The world of waters is our home, 

And merry men are we. 

There's tempest in yon horned moon, 

And lightning in yon cloud ; 
But hark the music, mariners ! 

The wind is piping loud ; 
The wind is piping loud, my boys, 

The lightning flashes free — 
While the hollow oak our palace is, 

Our heritage the sea. 

Allan Cunningham 



39 



iFebruarg tfje Ntntfj 



MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 
I never lo'ed a dearer, 
And neist my heart I'll wear her, 
For fear my jewel tine. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

The warld's wrack we share o't, 
The warstle and the care o't: 
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, 
And think my lot divine. 

Robert Burns 



FREEDOM IN DRESS 

Still to be neat, still to be drest, 

As you were going to a feast ; 

Still to be powdered, still perfumed, — 

Lady, it is to be presumed, 

Though art's hid causes are not found, 

All is not sweet, all is not sound. 

Give me a look, give me a face, 
That makes simplicity a grace ; 
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free, — 
Such sweet neglect more taketh me 
Than all the adulteries of art ; 
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 

Ben Jonson 



40 



Ch S^m h ' jFe&ruarg tije ftentfj 



O, SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S 
BLOOM! 

O, snatched away in beauty's bloom ! 

On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 

But on thy turf shall roses rear 

Their leaves, the earliest of the year, 

And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : 

And oft by yon blue gushing stream 

Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, 

And feed deep thought with many a dream, 

And lingering pause and lightly tread ; 

Fond wretch ! as if her step disturbed the dead ! 

Away ! we know that tears are vain, 
That Death nor heeds nor hears distress : 
Will this unteach us to complain ? 
Or make one mourner weep the less ? 
And thou, who tell'st me to forget, 
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 

Lord Byron 



NATURE 

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, 

Leads by the hand her little child to bed, 

Half willing, half reluctant to be led, 
And leave his broken playthings on the floor, 
Still gazing at them through the open door, 

Nor wholly reassured and comforted 

By promises of others in their stead, 
Which, though more splendid, may not please him more, - 
So Nature deals with us, and takes away 

Our playthings one by one, and by the hand 
Leads us to rest so gently, that we go 
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, 

Being too full of sleep to understand 

How far the unknown transcends the what we know. 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 



4i 



jjtbruarg tfje lElebentij 



SOLITUDE 

Happy the man, whose wish and care 
A few paternal acres bound, 
Content to breathe his native air 

In his own ground. 

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 
Whose flocks supply him with attire ; 
Whose trees in summer yield him shade, 
In winter fire. 

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find 
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away 
In health of body, peace of mind, 
Quiet by day, 

Sound sleep by night ; study and ease 
Together mixt, sweet recreation, 
And innocence, which most doth please 
With meditation. 

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown ; 
Thus unlamented let me die ; 
Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie. 

Alexander Pope 



42 



^X?« e &8 ith ' JFebruarg flje Etoelftl} 



TO THE SKYLARK 

Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound ? 
Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? 
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 
Those quivering wings composed, that music still ! 

To the last point of vision, and beyond 
Mount, daring warbler ! — that love-prompted strain 
— 'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond — 
Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : 
Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege ! to sing 
All independent of the leafy Spring. 
• 

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; 

A privacy of glorious light is thine, 

Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 

Of harmony, with instinct more divine ; 

Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam — 

True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home. 

William Wordsworth 



43 



jFebruarg t&e Eijtrteenti) philip f5 e u d k ^ arston * 



POST MORTEM 

If Thou survive my well-contented day 

When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover, 

And shalt by fortune once more re-survey 

These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover ; 

Compare them with the bettering of the time, 
And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, 
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme 
Exceeded by the height of happier men. 

Oh then vouchsafe me but this loving thought — 
Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, 
A dearer birth than this his love had brought, 
To march in ranks of better equipage : 

But since he died, and poets better prove, 
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love." 

Willia?n Shakespeare 



A POET'S HOPE 

Time ! O Death ! I clasp you in my arms, 
For I can soothe an infinite cold sorrow, 
And gaze contented on your icy charms 

And that wild snow-pile which we call to-morrow ; 
Sweep, on, O soft and azure-lidded sky, 
Earth's waters to your gentle gaze reply. 

1 am not earth-born, though I here delay; 
Hope's child, I summon infiniter powers, 
And laugh to see the mild and sunny day 
Smile on the shrunk and thin autumnal hours; 

I laugh, for hope hath happy place with me, — 
If my bark sinks, 'tis to another sea. 

William Ellery Channing 



44 



jjtijruarjj tije jFourteentf) 



THE PORT OF SHIPS 1 

Behind him lay the gray Azores, 
Behind the Gates of Hercules ; 

Before him not the ghost of shores, 
Before him only shoreless seas. 

The good mate said : " Now must we pray, 
For lo ! the very stars are gone ; 

Brave Adm'ral speak, — what shall I say? 

" Why, say, ' Sail on ! Sail on ! and on ! 



1 11 



" My men grow mutinous day by day; 

My men grow ghastly, wan and weak." 
The stout mate thought of home ; a spray 
Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. 
"What shall I say, brave Adm'ral, say, 

If we sight naught but seas at dawn ? " 
" Why, you shall say, at break of day, 
< Sail on ! Sail on ! Sail on ! and on ! '" 

They sailed, and sailed, as winds might blow, 

Until at last the blanched mate said : 
" Why, now not even God would know 

Should I and all my men fall dead. 
These very winds forget their way, 

For God from these dread seas is gone ; 
Now speak, brave Adm'ral ; speak, and say — ' 

He said : " Sail on ! Sail on ! and on ! " 

They sailed ! They sailed ! Then spake the mate- 
" This mad sea shows its teeth to-night ; 
He curls his lip, he lies in wait 

With lifted teeth, as if to bite ! 
Brave Adm'ral, say but one good word, — 
What shall we do when hope is gone?" 
The words leaped as a leaping sword : 
" Sail on ! Sail on ! Sail on ! and on ! " 

Joaqtiin Miller 



1 From The Complete Poetical Works of Joaquin Miller, by permission of 
the publishers, The Whitaker and Ray Co., San Francisco. 

45 



JFcbruarg tfje jFifteentf) 



DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER 

Close his eyes ; his work is done ! 

What to him is friend or foeman, 
Rise of moon or set of sun, 

Hand of man or kiss of woman? 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know ; 
Lay him low ! 

As man may, he fought his fight, 

Proved his truth by his endeavour ; 
Let him sleep in solemn night, 
Sleep for ever and for ever. 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know ; 
Lay him low ! 

Fold him in his country's stars, 

Roll the drum and fire the volley ! 
What to him are all our wars? — 
What but death bemocking folly? 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he? he cannot know; 
Lay him low ! 

Leave him to God's watching eye ; 

Trust him to the hand that made him. 
Mortal love weeps idly by ; 

God alone has power to aid him. 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know ; 
. Lay him low ! 

George Henry Boker 



46 



jjtfcruars tfje Sixteenth 



TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON 

When Love with unconfined wings 

Hovers within my gates, 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at the grates ; 
When I lie tangled in her hair 

And fetter'd to her eye, 
The Gods that wanton in the air 

Know no such liberty. 

When flowing cups run swiftly round 

With no allaying Thames, 
Our careless heads with roses bound, 

Our hearts with loyal flames ; 
When thirsty grief in wine we steep, 

When healths and draughts go free — 
Fishes that tipple in the deep 

Know no such liberty. 

When (like committed linnets) I 

With shriller throat shall sing 
The sweetness, mercy, majesty 

And glories of my King ; 
When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, how great should be, 
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, 

Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage ; 
If I have freedom in my love 

And in my soul am free, 
Angels alone, that soar above, 

Enjoy such liberty. 

Richard Lovelace 



47 



jftfrruarg tfje Setanteentfj He E;l c d\? S 6 



ONE WORD IS TOO OFTEN PROFANED 

One word is too often profaned 

For me to profane it, 
One feeling too falsely disdain'd 

For thee to disdain it. 
One hope is too like despair 

For prudence to smother, 
And pity from thee more dear 

Than that from another. 

I can give not what men call love ; 

But wilt thou accept not 
The worship the heart lifts above 

And the Heavens reject not : 
The desire of the moth for the star, 

Of the night for the morrow, 
The devotion to something afar 

From the sphere of our sorrow ? 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 



THE FEAR OF DEATH 

When I have fears that I may cease to be 
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, 
Before high-piled books, in charact'ry 
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain ; 

When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, 
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, 
And think that I may never live to trace 
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance ; 

And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour ! 
That I shall never look upon thee more, 
Never have relish in the faery power 
Of unreflecting love — then on the shore 

Of the wide world I stand alone, and think 
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. 

John Keats 
48 



Percy Bysshe Shelley 
1792-1822 



jjtbruarg tfje lEtgljteentf) 



I TRAVELL'D AMONG UNKNOWN MEN 

I travell'd among unknown men 

In lands beyond the sea; 
Nor, England! did I know till then 

What love I bore to thee. 

'Tis past, that melancholy dream ! 

Nor will I quit thy shore 
A second time ; for still I seem 

To love thee more and more. 

Among thy mountains did I feel 

The joy of my desire ; 
And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel 

Beside an English fire. 

Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd 
The bowers where Lucy play'd ; 

And thine too is the last green field 
That Lucy's eyes survey'd. 

William Wordsworth 



A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL 

A slumber did my spirit seal ; 

I had no human fears : 
She seem'd a thing that could not feel 

The touch of earthly years. 

No motion has she now, no force ; 

She neither hears nor sees ; 
Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course 

With rocks, and stones, and trees. 

William Wordsworth 



49 



JFebruarg tfje Nineteenth 



TO HELEN 

Helen, thy beauty is to me 

Like those Nicaean barks of yore, 

That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, 
The weary, wayworn wanderer bore 
To his own native shore. 

On desperate seas long wont to roam, 
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, 

Thy Naiad airs, have brought me home 
To the glory that was Greece 

And the grandeur that was Rome. 

Lo ! in yon brilliant window-niche 
How statue-like I see thee stand, 
The agate lamp within thy hand ! 

Ah, Psyche, from the regions which 
Are Holy Land! 

Edgar Allan Poe 



TO MARY UNWIN 

Mary ! I want a lyre with other strings, 

Such aid from Heaven as some have feign'd they drew, 

An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new 

And undebased by praise of meaner things, 

That ere through age or woe I shed my wings 
I may record thy worth with honour due, 
In verse as musical as thou art true, 
And that immortalises whom it sings : — 

But thou hast little need. There is a Book 
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, 
On which the eyes of God not rarely look, 
A chronicle of actions just and bright — 

There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine ; 
And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine. 

William Cowfier 
5o 



jjtfauarg tlje Etoentiet!) 

A FAREWELL 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

An' fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink before I go 

A service to my bonnie lassie : 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry, 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes deep and bloody ; 
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shout o' war that's heard afar — 

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary ! 

Robert Burns 

A RED, RED ROSE 

O my Luve's like a red, red rose 

That's newly sprung in June : 
O my Luve's like the melodie 

That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I : 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry : 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 

And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only Luve ! 

And fare thee weel awhile ! 
And I will come again, my Luve, 
Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 

Robert Burns 
5* 



jFebruarj? tfje Eton%ffrst John ? T;£r man ' 



HIGHLAND MARY 

Ye banks and braes and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours on angel wings 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me as light and life 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But, Oh ! fell Death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ; 
And mouldering now in silent dust 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 

Robert Burns 



52 



James^usseULowell, JflhtVMC£ t\}t Efoetttg^eCOtttl 



YOUTH AND AGE 

There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away 
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull 

decay ; 
'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which 

fades so fast, 
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be 

past. 

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happi- 
ness 
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess : 
The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain 
The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch 
again. 

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes 

down ; 
It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own ; 
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, 
And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice 

appears. 

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract 

the breast, 
Through midnight hours that yield no more their former 

/ hope of rest ; 
'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe, 
All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray 

beneath. 

Oh could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been, 
Or weep, as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd 

scene, — 
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though 

they be, 
So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow 

to me! 

Lord Byron 



S3 



jFeiruarg flje Etoattg=tf}irti '&*£?• 



THE JOURNEY ONWARDS 

As slow our ship her foamy track 

Against the wind was cleaving, 
Her trembling pennant still look'd back 

To that dear isle 'twas leaving. 
So loth we part from all we love, 

From all the links that bind us ; 
So turn our hearts, as on we rove, 

To those we've left behind us ! 

When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years 

We talk with joyous seeming — 
With smiles that might as well be tears, 

So faint, so sad their beaming ; 
While memory brings us back again 

Each early tie that twined us, 
Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then 

To those we've left behind us ! 

And when, in other climes, we meet 

Some isle or vale enchanting, 
Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet, 

And nought but love is wanting; 
We think how great had been our bliss 

If Heaven had but assign'd us 
To live and die in scenes like this, 

With some we've left behind us ! 

As travellers oft look back at eve 

When eastward darkly going, 
To gaze upon that light they leave 

Still faint behind them glowing, — 
So, when the close of pleasure's day 

To gloom hath near consign'd us, 
We turn to catch one fading ray 

Of joy that's left behind us. 

Thomas Moore 



54 



jfebruarg tjje &toentg4ourtii 



SAINT JOHN BAPTIST 

The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King 
Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild, 
Among that savage brood the woods forth bring, 
Which he more harmless found than man, and mild. 

His food was locusts, and what there doth spring, 
With honey that from virgin hives distill'd ; 
Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing 
Made him appear, long since from earth exiled. 

There burst he forth : All ye whose hopes rely 
On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn, 
Repent, repent, and from old errors turn ! 
— Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry ? 

Only the echoes, which he made relent, 

Rung from their flinty caves, Repent ! Repent ! 

William Drummond 



ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT 

Avenge, O Lord ! Thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones 
Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold ; 
Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old 
When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones, 

Forget not : In Thy book record their groans 
Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold 
Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that roll'd 
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans 

The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 

To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow 

O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway 

The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow 
A hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way, 
Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 

John Milton 

55 



jftbrttarg tlje Jltoentg^fiftlj Thomas Moore, 



Died 1852 



OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT 

I met a traveller from an antique land 
Who said : Two vast and trunkless legs of stone 
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, 
Half /sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown 
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command 
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read 
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things, 
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed ; 
And on the pedestal these words appear : 
" My name is Ozymandias, king of kings : 
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair ! " 
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay 
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, 
The lone and level sands stretch far away. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 



SESOSTRIS 

Sole Lord of Lords and very King of Kings, 

He sits within the desert, carved in stone ; 

Inscrutable, colossal, and alone, 
And ancienter than memory of things. 
Graved on his front the sacred beetle clings ; 

Disdain sits on his lips ; and in a frown 

Scorn lives upon his forehead for a crown. 
The affrighted ostrich dare not dust her wings 
Anear this Presence. The long caravan's 

Dazed camels stop, and mute the Bedouins stare. 

This symbol of past power more than man's 
Presages doom. Kings look — and Kings despair: 
Their sceptres tremble in their jewelled hands 

And dark thrones totter in the baleful air! 

Lloyd Mifflin 



56 



&&"&£, SSIfi JFefcruarg tlje Etoratg^injj 



THE TIDE RISES, THE TIDE FALLS 

The tide rises, the tide falls, 
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls ; 
Along the sea-sands damp and brown 
The traveller hastens toward the town, 
And the tide rises, the tide falls. 

Darkness settles on roofs and walls, 
But the sea in the darkness calls and calls ; 
The little waves, with their soft, white hands, 
Efface the footprints in the sands, 
And the tide rises, the tide falls. 

The morning breaks ; the steeds in their stalls 
Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls ; 
The day returns, but nevermore 
Returns the traveller to the shore, 
And the tide rises, the tide falls. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 



DAYS 

Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days, 

Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes, 

And marching single in an endless file, 

Bring diadems and fagots in their hands. 

To each they offer gifts after his will, 

Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all. 

I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp, 

Forgot my morning wishes, hastily 

Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day 

Turned and departed silent. I, too late, 

Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson 



57 



jFebruarg $t ft'mmt&ztbmfy H Xi™r r X Long " 



THE TOYS 

My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes 

And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, 

Having my law the seventh time disobey'd, 

I struck him, and dismiss'd 

With hard words and unkiss'd, 

His Mother, who was patient, being dead. 

Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, 

I visited his bed, 

But found him slumbering deep, 

With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet 

From his late sobbing wet. 

And I, with moan, 

Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; 

For, on a table drawn beside his head, 

He had put, within his reach, 

A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone, 

A piece of glass abraded by the beach 

And six or seven shells, 

A bottle with bluebells 

And two French copper coins, ranged there with 

careful art, 
To comfort his sad heart. 
So when that night I pray'd 
To God, I wept, and said : 
Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath, 
Not vexing Thee in death, 
And Thou rememberest of what toys 
We made our joys, 
How weakly understood 
Thy great commanded good, 
Then, fatherly not less 

Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, 
Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, 
' I will be sorry for their childishness." 

Coventry Patmore 



5S 



jfthruarg tije &foentg;eiQi)tfj 



THE REAPER 

Behold her, single in the field, 
Yon solitary Highland Lass ! 
Reaping and singing by herself; 
Stop here, or gently pass ! 
Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
And sings a melancholy strain ; 

listen ! for the vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 

No nightingale did ever chaunt 
More welcome notes to weary bands 
Of travellers in some shady haunt, 
Among Arabian sands : 
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking the silence of the seas 
Among the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings ? 

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 

For old, unhappy, far-off things, 

And battles long ago : 

Or is it some more humble lay, 

Familiar matter of to-day ? 

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 

That has been, and may be again ! 

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang 
As if her song could have no ending ; 

1 saw her singing at her work, 
And o'er the sickle bending ; — 
I listen'd, motionless and still ; 
And, as I mounted up the hill, 
The music in my heart I bore 
Long after it was heard no more. 

William Wordsworth 



59 



tfefcruarg tfje ftfoottgrnintlj 



FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT 

Is there for honest poverty 

Wha hings his head, an' a' that? 
The coward slave, we pass him by ; 

We dare be poor for a' that. 
For a' that an' a' that, 

Our toils obscure, an' a' that; 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, — 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 

What though on hamely fare we dine, 

Wear hoddin gray, an' a' that; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, — 

A man's a man for a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 

Their tinsel show, an' a' that ; 
The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 

Is king o' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that, — 
Though hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that ; 
For a' that, an' a' that, 

His riband, star, an' a' that ; 
The man of independent mind, 

He looks an' laughs at a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may, — 

As come it will for a' that, — 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 

May bear the gree, an' a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 

It's comin' yet, for a' that, — 
When man to man, the warld o'er, 

Shall brithers be for a' that ! 

Robert Burns 



60 



Jftarclj tije jftrst 



THE FISHERMEN 

Three fishers went sailing out into the west — 

Out into the west as the sun went down ; 
Each thought of the woman who loved him the best, 

And the children stood watching them out of the town ; 
For men must work, and women must weep ; 
And there's little to earn, and many to keep, 
Though the harbour bar be moaning. 

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, 

And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; 
And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the 
shower, 
And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and brown ; 
But men must work, and women must weep, 
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 
And the harbour bar be moaning. 

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 

In the morning gleam as the tide went down, 
And the women are watching and wringing their hands, 

For those who will never come back to the town ; 
For men must work, and women must weep, — 
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep, — 
And good-by to the bar and its moaning. 

Charles Kingsley 



01 



J&arcJj tije Secern* 



THE ANGLER'S WISH 

I in these flowery meads would be, 

These crystal streams should solace me ; 

To whose harmonious bubbling noise 

I, with my angle, would rejoice, 

Sit here, and see the turtle-dove 
Court his chaste mate to acts of love ; 

Or, on that bank, feel the west-wind 
Breathe health and plenty ; please my mind, 
To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, 
And then washed off by April showers ; 
Here, hear my Kenna sing a song : 
There, see a blackbird feed her young, 

Or a laverock build her nest ; 

Here, give my weary spirits rest, 

And raise my low-pitched thoughts above 

Earth, or what poor mortals love. 

Thus, free from lawsuits, and the noise 
Of princes' courts, I would rejoice ; 

Or, with my Bryan and a book, 

Loiter long days near Shawford brook; 

There sit by him, and eat my meat ; 

There see the sun both rise and set ; 

There bid good-morning to next day ; 

There meditate my time away ; 

And angle on ; and beg to have 

A quiet passage to a welcome grave. 

Izaak Walton 



62 



Ed Bo n m d X a 6 ler ' Ward) t&e tt&irt 



THE BUGLE 

The splendour falls on castle walls 
And snowy summits old in story : 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O hark ! O hear ! how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
O sweet and far, from cliff and scar, 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow for ever and for ever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 

Alfred Tennyson 



e>3 



JHarrfj ttje jFourti) 



BANNOCK- BURN 

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled — 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led — 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to victorie ! 

Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lower ; 
See approach proud Edward's power — 
Chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Let him turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand or freeman fa' — 
Let him follow me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty 's in every blow ! 
Let us do, or die ! 

Robert Burns 



Jflarri) tfje tftftt) 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAM 

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, 
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; 

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, 
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw 
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, 

At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw; 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array 
Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track : 

'Twas Autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way 
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; 

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, 

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore 

From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; 

My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, 
And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. 

" Stay — stay with us ! — rest ! — thou art weary and 
worn ! " — 
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; — 
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, 
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 

Thomas Campbell 



65 



JMfrivi*^ +4yo Citftft Mrs - E - B - Browning, Born 1809 

JttlarCTJ ITJE <£>IXU| Francis Beaumont, Died 1616 



THE BRAVE AT HOME 

The maid who binds her warrior's sash 

With smile that well her pain dissembles, 
The while beneath her drooping lash 

One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles, 
Though Heaven alone records the tear, 

And Fame shall never know her story, 
Her heart has shed a drop as dear 

As e'er bedewed the field of glory ! 

The wife who girds her husband's sword, 

Mid little ones who weep or wonder, 
And bravely speaks the cheering word, 

What though her heart be rent asunder, 
Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear 

The bolts of death around him rattle, 
Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er 

Was poured upon the field of battle ! 

The mother who conceals her grief 

While to her breast her son she presses, 
Then breathes a few brave words and brief, 

Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, 
With no one but her secret God 

To know the pain that weighs upon her, 
Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod 

Received on Freedom's field of honour ! 

Thomas Buchanan Read 



% 



JMarrf) tfje Setentij 



HOME -THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD 

Oh, to be in England 

Now that April's there, 

And whoever wakes in England 

Sees, some morning, unaware, 

That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf 

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, 

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 

In England — now ! 

And after April, when May follows, 
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows ! 
Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge 
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 
Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's edge — 
That's the wise thrush ; he sings each song twice over, 
Lest you should think he never could recapture 
The first fine careless rapture ! 
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, 
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew 
The buttercups, the little children's dower 
— Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower ! 

Robert Browning 



67 



JHarcJ} tfje Eigjjtl) 



THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS 

The day returns, my bosom burns, 

The blissful day we twa did meet ; 
Though winter wild in tempest toil'd, 

Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet. 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 

And crosses o'er the sultry line, — 
Than kingly robes, and crowns and globes, 

Heav'n gave me more ; it made thee mine. 

While day and night can bring delight, 

Or nature aught of pleasure give, — 
While joys above my mind can move, 

For thee and thee alone I live ; 
When that grim foe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part, 
The iron hand that breaks our band, 

It breaks my bliss, — it breaks my heart. 

Robert Burns 



ADIEU, ADIEU ! MY NATIVE SHORE 

Adieu, adieu ! my native shore 

Fades o'er the waters blue ; 
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 

And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
Yon sun that sets upon the sea 

We follow in his flight; 
Farewell awhile to him and thee, 

My native Land — Good Night ! 

A few short hours, and he will rise 

To give the morrow birth ; 
And I shall hail the main and skies, 

But not my mother earth. 
Deserted is my own good hall, 

Its hearth is desolate ; 
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ; 

My dog howls at the gate. 

Lord Byron 
68 



Jttarcl) tfje Ntnti) 

FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER 

Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer 

For other's weal availed on high, 
Mine will not all be lost in air, 

But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh : 

Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell, 
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, 

Are in that word — Farewell ! — Farewell! 

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry : 

But in my breast and in my brain 
Awake the pangs that pass not by, 

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. 
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, 

Though grief and passion there rebel : 
I only know we loved in vain — 

I only feel — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 

Lord Byron 

THE LAST WORD 

Creep into thy narrow bed, 
Creep, and let no more be said ! 
Vain thy onset ! all stands fast ; 
Thou thyself must break at last. 

Let the long contention cease ! 
Geese are swans, and swans are geese. 
Let them have it how they will ! 
Thou art tired ; best be still. 

They out-talked thee, hissed thee, tore thee ? 
Better men fared thus before thee ; 
Fired their ringing shot and passed, 
Hotly charged — and sank at last. 

Charge once more, then, and be dumb ! 
Let the victors, when they come, 
When the forts of folly fall, 
Find thy body by the wall ! 

Matthew Arnold 
69 



ilftarrf) tije ftenttj 



HESTER 

When maidens such as Hester die 
Their place ye may not well supply, 
Though ye among a thousand try 

With vain endeavour. 
A month or more hath she been dead, 
Yet cannot I by force be led 
To think upon the wormy bed 

And her together. 

A springy motion in her gait, 

A rising step, did indicate 

Of pride and joy no common rate 

That flush'd her spirit : 
I know not by what name beside 
I shall it call : if 'twas not pride, 
It was a joy to that allied 

She did inherit. 

Her parents held the Quaker rule, 
Which doth the human feeling cool ; 
But she was train'd in Nature's school, 

Nature had blest her. 
A waking eye, a prying mind, 
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ; 
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, 

Ye could not Hester. 

My sprightly neighbour ! gone before 
To that unknown and silent shore, 
Shall we not meet, as heretofore 

Some summer morning — 
When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
Hath struck a bliss upon the day, 
A bliss that would not go away, 

A sweet fore-warning ? 

Charles Lamb 



70 



JHarclj tlje llebentfj 



WEEP NOT, MY WANTON 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee ; 
When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee. 

Mother's wag, pretty boy, 

Father's sorrow, father's joy ; 

When thy father first did see 

Such a boy by him and me, 

He was glad, I was woe, 

Fortune changed made him so, 

When he left his pretty boy 

Last his sorrow, first his joy. 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, 
When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee. 

Streaming tears that never stint, 

Like pearl drops from a flint, 

Fell by course from his eyes, 

That one another's place supplies; 

Thus he grieved in every part, 

Tears of blood fell from his heart, 

When he left his pretty boy, 

Father's sorrow, father's joy. 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, 
When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee. 

The wanton smiled, father wept, 

Mother cried, baby leapt ; 

More he crow'd, more we cried, 

Nature could not sorrow hide : 

He must go, he must kiss 

Child and mother, baby bless, 

For he left his pretty boy, 

Father's sorrow, father's joy. 
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, 
When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee. 

Robert Greene 



7i 



JSarcij tfje fttorfftfj 



ON A GIRDLE 

That which her slender waist confined 
Shall now my joyful temples bind : 
No monarch but would give his crown 
His arms might do what this has done. 

It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, 
The pale which held that lovely deer : 
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love 
Did all within this circle move. 

A narrow compass ! and yet there 
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair : 
Give me but what this ribband bound, 
Take all the rest the Sun goes round. 

Ed.7nu7id Waller 



COUNSEL TO GIRLS 

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, 

Old Time is still a-flying : 
And this same flower that smiles to-day, 

To-morrow will be dying. 

The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun, 

The higher he's a-getting 
The sooner will his race be run, 

And nearer he's to setting. 

That age is best which is the first, 
When youth and blood are warmer; 

But being spent, the worse, and worst 
Times, still succeed the former. 

Then be not coy, but use your time ; 

And while ye may, go marry : 
For having lost but once your prime, 
You may for ever tarry. 

Robert Herrick 
72 



JHarci) tije SDijtrteenti) 



SONG 

How should I your true love know 

From another one? 
By his cockle hat and staff, 

And his sandal shoon. 

He is dead and gone, lady, 

He is dead and gone ; 
At his head a grass-green turf, 

At his heels a stone. 

White his shroud as the mountain snow 

Larded with sweet flowers ; 
Which bewept to the grave did go 

With true-love showers. 

Williain Shakespeare 



DINNA ASK ME 

O, dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye : 

Troth, I daurna tell! 
Dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye, — 

Ask it o' yoursel'. 

O, dinna look sae sair at me, 

For weel ye ken me true ; 
O, gin ye look sae sair at me, 

I daurna look at you. 

When ye gang to yon braw braw town, 

And bonnier lassies see, 
O, dinna, Jamie, look at them, 

Lest ye should mind na me. 

For I could never bide the lass 
That ye 'd lo'e mair than me ; 
And O, I'm sure my heart wad brak, 
Gin ye'd prove fause to me ! 

John Dtinfop 
73 



Ward) tfje jfourteenfy Arthur B^ h I a 8 u 4 ! hnessy ' 



SONG 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows, 
When June is past, the fading rose ; 
For in your beauties, orient deep, 
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. 

Ask me no more whither do stray 
The golden atoms of the day ; 
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare 
Those powders to enrich your hair. 

Ask me no more whither doth haste 
The nightingale when May is past ; 
For in your sweet, dividing throat 
She winters, and keeps warm her note. 

Ask me no more where those stars light 
That downwards fall in dead of night ; 
For in your eyes they sit, and there 
Fixed become, as in their sphere. 

Ask me no more if east or west 
The phoenix builds her spicy nest ; 
For unto you at last she flies, 
And in your fragrant bosom dies. 

Thomas Carew 



74 



JHardj tfje jFtftontJj 



THE POETRY OF DRESS 

A sweet disorder in the dress 
Kindles in clothes a wantonness : — 
A lawn about the shoulders thrown 
Into a fine distraction, — 
An erring lace, which here and there 
Enthrals the crimson stomacher, — 
A cuff neglectful, and thereby 
Ribbands to flow confusedly, — 
A winning wave, deserving note, 
In the tempestuous petticoat, — 
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie 
I see a wild civility, — 
Do more bewitch me, than when art 
Is too precise in every part. 

Robert Herrick 



WHENAS IN SILKS 

Whenas in silks my Julia goes 

Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows 

That liquefaction of her clothes. 

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see 
That brave vibration each way free ; 
Oh, how that glittering taketh me ! 

Robert Herrick 



75 



Jlarclj tfje Sixteenth 



TO ONE IN PARADISE 

Thou wast all that to me, love, 

For which my soul did pine : 
A green isle in the sea, love, 

A fountain and a shrine 
All wreath'd with fairy fruits and flowers, 

And all the flowers were mine. 

Ah, dream too bright to last ! 

Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise 
But to be overcast ! 

A voice from out the Future cries, 
« On ! on ! " — but o'er the Past 

(Dim gulf ! ) my spirit hovering lies 
Mute, motionless, aghast. 

For, alas ! alas ! with me 

The light of Life is o'er ! 

No more — no more — no more — 
(Such language holds the solemn sea 

To the sands upon the shore) 
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, 

Or the stricken eagle soar. 

And all my days are trances, 

And all my nightly dreams 
Are where thy dark eye glances, 

And where thy footstep gleams, — ■ 
In what ethereal dances, 

By what eternal streams. 

Edgar Allan Poe 



76 



Edgar Allan Poe 
i 809-1 849 



JHard) tfjc Sebotteotti) 



ODE 

We are the music makers, 

And we are the dreamers of dreams, 
Wandering by lone sea-breakers, 

And sitting by desolate streams ; — 
World-losers and world-forsakers, 

On whom the pale moon gleams : 
Yet we are the movers and shakers 

Of the world for ever, it seems. 

With wonderful deathless ditties 
We build up the world's great cities, 

And out of a fabulous story 

W T e fashion an empire's glory : 
One man with a dream, at pleasure, 

Shall go forth and conquer a crown : 
And three with a new song's measure 

Can trample a kingdom down. 

We, in the ages lying 

In the buried past of the earth, 
Built Nineveh with our sighing, 

And Babel itself in our mirth ; 
And o'erthrew them with prophesying 

To the old of the new world's worth ; 
For each age is a dream that is dying, 

Or one that is coming to birth. 

Arthur O^ Shaughnessy 



11 



JHarcij tije 9£tgl)teenti) 



HEARTSEASE 

There is a flower I wish to wear, 

But not until first worn by you — 
Heartsease — of all earth's flowers most rare ; 

Bring it ; and bring enough for two. 

Walter Savage Landor 



A FAREWELL 

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, 

Thy tribute wave deliver : 
No more by thee my steps shall be, 

For ever and for ever. 

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, 

A rivulet then a river : 
No where by thee my steps shall be, 

For ever and for ever. 

But here will sigh thine alder tree, 

And here thine aspen shiver ; 
And here by thee will hum the bee, 

For ever and for ever. 

A thousand suns will stream on thee, 

A thousand moons will quiver ; 
But not by thee my steps shall be, 

For ever and for ever. 

Alfred Tennyson 



78 



JHarclj fyz Nineteenth 



HYMN TO THE SPIRIT OF NATURE 

Life of Life ! Thy lips enkindle 

With their love the breath between them ; 

And thy smiles before they dwindle 

Make the cold air fire ; then screen them 

In those locks, where whoso gazes 

Faints, entangled in their mazes. 

Child of Light ! Thy limbs are burning 

Through the vest which seems to hide them, 

As the radiant lines of morning 

Through the clouds, ere they divide them ; 

And this atmosphere divinest 

Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest. 

Fair are others : none beholds Thee ; 

But thy voice sounds low and tender 
Like the fairest, for it folds thee 

From the sight, that liquid splendour; 
And all feel, yet see thee never, — 
As I feel now, lost for ever ! 

Lamp of Earth ! where'er thou movest, 
Its dim shapes are clad with brightness, 

And the souls of whom thou lovest 
Walk upon the winds with lightness, 

Till they fail, as I am failing, 

Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing ! 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 



7Q 



Jttarclj tfje Etomtiety 



DELIGHT IN GOD ONLY 

I love, and have some cause to love, the earth — 
She is my Maker's creature, therefore good. 

She is my mother, for she gave me birth ; 
She is my tender nurse, she gives me food : 

But what's a creature, Lord, compared with Thee ? 

Or what's my mother or my nurse to me? 

I love the air — her dainty sweets refresh 

My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me ; 

Her shrill-mouthed choir sustain me with their flesh, 
And with their polyphonian notes delight me: 

But what's the air, or all the sweets that she 

Can bless my soul withal, compared to Thee ? 

I love the sea — she is my fellow creature, 
My careful purveyor; she provides me store; 

She walls me round; she makes my diet greater; 
She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore : 

But, Lord of oceans, when compared with Thee, 

What is the ocean or her wealth to me ? 

To heaven's high city I direct my journey, 

Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye — 

Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney, 
Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky: 

But what is heaven, great God, compared to Thee ? 

Without Thy presence, heaven's no heaven to me. 

Fra,7icis Quarles 



80 



Ro D e ;ed S xC ey ' JHarrfj tlje &toet%first 



O GOD! OUR HELP IN AGES PAST 

O God ! our help in ages past, 

Our hope for years to come, 
Our shelter from the stormy blast, 

And our eternal home ! 

Under the shadow of Thy Throne 

Thy saints have dwelt secure ; 
Sufficient is Thine arm alone, 

And our defence is sure. 

Before the hills in order stood, 

Or earth received her frame, 
From everlasting Thou art God, 

To endless years the same. 

A thousand ages in Thy sight 

Are like an evening gone ; 
Short as the watch that ends the night 

Before the rising sun. 

Time, like an ever-rolling stream, 

Bears all its sons away; 
They fly, forgotten, as a dream 

Dies at the opening day. 

O God ! our help in ages past, 

Our hope for years to come, 
Be Thou our guide while troubles last, 

And our eternal home ! 

Isaac Watts 



81 



J»arrij tije Efoentg*eam& 



Died 1832 



THE SPACIOUS FIRMAMENT ON HIGH 

The spacious firmament on high, 

With all the blue ethereal sky, 

And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 

Their great Original proclaim ; 

The unwearied sun, from day to day, 

Does his Creator's power display, 

And publishes, to every land, 

The work of an Almighty hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
The Moon takes up the wondrous tale, 
And nightly to the listening Earth 
Repeats the story of her birth ; 
While all the stars that round her burn, 
And all the planets in their turn, 
Confirm the tidings as they roll, 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

What though, in solemn silence, all 
Move round the dark terrestrial ball ? 
What though no real voice or sound 
Amid their radiant orbs be found ? 
In Reason's ear they all rejoice, 
And utter forth a glorious voice, 
Forever singing, as they shine, 
" The Hand that made us is divine ! " 

Joseph Addison 



82 



JHarcf) tfje &b3mt2=ti)tr& 



HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR 
DEAD 

Home they brought her warrior dead : 

She nor swooned, nor uttered cry; 
All her maidens, watching, said, 
" She must weep or she will die." 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 

Called him worthy to be loved, 
Truest friend, and noblest foe ; 

Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place, 

Lightly to the warrior stept, 
Took the face-cloth from the face; 

Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years, 

Set his child upon her knee, — 
Like summer tempest came her tears, — 
" Sweet my child, I live for thee." 

Alfred Te7i?iyson 

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN 

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, 
Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years 
Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard 
In the silence of morning the song of the bird. 

'Tis a note of enchantment ; what ails her? She sees 
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; 
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, 
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. 

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale 
Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail ; 
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, 
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. 

She looks, and her heart is in heaven : but they fade, 
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade ; 
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 
And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes ! 

William Wordsworth 
83 



ffarcij tfje tttoentg^ourtji %Z£?$3£i!i£&l 



BEAUTY 

'Tis much immortal beauty to admire, 

But more immortal beauty to withstand ; 
The perfect soul can overcome desire, 

If beauty with divine delight be scann'd. 
For what is beauty, but the blooming child 

Of fair Olympus, that in night must end, 
And be for ever from that bliss exiled, 

If admiration stand too much its friend ? 
The wind may be enamoured of a flower, 

The ocean of the green and laughing shore, 
The silver lightning of a lofty tower — 

But must not with too near a love adore ; 
Or flower, and margin, and cloud-capped tower, 
Love and delight shall with delight devour ! 

Lord Edward Thurlow 



WHO IS SILVIA? 

Who is Silvia ? what is she, 

That all the swains commend her? 

Holy, fair, and wise, is she ; 

The heavens such grace did lend her 

That she might admired be. 

Is she kind as she is fair, 

For beauty lives with kindness ? 

Love doth to her eyes repair 
To help him of his blindness — 

And, being helped, inhabits there. 

Then to Silvia let us sing 

That Silvia is excelling ; 
She excels each mortal thing 

Upon the dull earth dwelling ; 
To her let us garlands bring. 

William Shakespeare 



84 



882 



Jttard) fije fttoentg^fiftfj 



SONG 

How delicious is the winning 
Of a kiss at love's beginning, 
When two mutual hearts are sighing 
For the knot there's no untying ! 

Yet, remember, 'midst your wooing, 
Love has bliss, but love has rueing; 
Other smiles may make you fickle, 
Tears for other charms may trickle. 

Love he comes and Love he tarries, 
Just as fate or fancy carries ; 
Longest stays when sorest chidden ; 
Laughs and flies when press'd and bidden. 

Bind the sea to slumber stilly, 
Bind its odour to the lily, 
Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, 
Then bind love to last for ever ! 

Love's a fire that needs renewal 

Of fresh beauty for its fuel ; 

Love's wing moults when caged and captur'd, - 

Only free he soars enraptur'd. 

Can you keep the bee from ranging, 
Or the ring-dove's neck from changing ? 
No ! nor fettered Love from dying 
In the knot there's no untying. 

Thomas Ca?npbell 



85 



iHarcij tije Etoentg^ixttj 



Walt Whitman, 
Died 1892 



TO BLOSSOMS 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 

Why do ye fall so fast ? 

Your date is not so past, 
But you may stay yet here awhile 

To blush and gently smile, 
And go at last. 

What, were ye born to be 

An hour or half's delight, 

And so to bid good-night ? 
'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth 

Merely to show your worth, 
And lose you quite. 

But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things have 
Their end, though ne'er so brave : 
And after they have shown their pride 
Like you, awhile, they glide 
Into the grave. 

Robert Herrick 



86 



ilarri) tlje Qfamt&Bttomti) 



THE MAID'S LAMENT 

I loved him not ; and yet, now he is gone, 

I feel I am alone. 
I check'd him while he spoke ; yet could he speak, 

Alas ! I would not check. 
For reasons not to love him once I sought, 

And wearied all my thought 
To vex myself and him : I now would give 

My love, could he but live 
Who lately lived for me, and when he found 

'Twas vain, in holy ground 
He hid his face amid the shades of death ! 

I waste for him my breath 
Who wasted his for me ; but mine returns, 

And this lone bosom burns 
With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, 

And waking me to weep 
Tears that had melted his soft heart : for years, 

Wept he as bitter tears ! 
Merciful God! " such was his latest prayer, 

" These may she never share ! " 
Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold 

Than daisies in the mould, 
Where children spell athwart the churchyard gate 

His name and life's brief date. 
Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be, 

And Oh, pray, too, for me ! 

Walter Savage Landor 



^ 



Jttarrij tfje &tonttgmgi)ti) 



TIME TO BE WISE 

Yes ; I write verses now and then, 
But blunt and flaccid is my pen, 
No longer talk'd of by young men 

As rather clever ; 
In the last quarter are my eyes, 
You see it by their form and size ; 
Is it not time then to be wise ? 

Or now or never. 

Fairest that ever sprang from Eve ! 
While Time allows the short reprieve, 
Just look at me ! would you believe 

'Twas once a lover? 
I cannot clear the five-bar gate ; 
But, trying first its timber's state, 
Climb stiffly up, take breath, and wait 

To trundle over. 

Through gallopade I cannot swing 

The entangling blooms of Beauty's spring : 

I cannot say the tender thing, 

Be't true or false, 
And am beginning to opine 
Those girls are only half divine 
Whose waists you wicked boys entwine 

In giddy waltz. 

I fear that arm above that shoulder ; 
I wish them wiser, graver, older, 
Sedater, and no harm if colder, 

And panting less. 
Ah! people were not half so wild 
In former days, when, starchly mild, 
Upon her high-heel'd Essex smil'd 

The brave Queen Bess. 

Walter Savage Landor 



S3 



JSarri) tije ftfoentj^nintf) 



ONE WAY OF LOVE 

All June I bound 5 the rose in sheaves; 
Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves, 
And strew them where Pauline may pass. 
She will not turn aside ? Alas ! 
Let them lie. Suppose they die ? 
The chance was they might take her eye. 

How many a month I strove to suit 
These stubborn fingers to the lute ! 
To-day I venture all I know. 
She will not hear my music ? So ! 
Break the string — fold music's wing. 
Suppose Pauline had bade me sing! 

My whole life long I learn'd to love ; 

This hour my utmost art I prove, 

And speak my passion. — Heaven or hell? 

She will not give me heaven ? 'Tis well — 

Lose who may — I still can say, 

Those who win heaven, blest are they. 

Robert Browning 



IT WAS NOT IN THE WINTER 

It was not in the winter 

Our loving lot was cast; 
It was the time of roses, 

We pluck'd them as we pass'd! 

That churlish season never frown'd 

On early lovers yet ! 
Oh no, the world was newly crown'd 

With flowers when first we met. 

'Twas twilight, and I bade you go, 

But still you held me fast ; 
It was the time of roses, 

We pluck'd them as we pass'd ! 

Thomas Hood 



JHarctj tfje Eljtrttetf) 



SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE 

If thou must love me, let it be for nought 

Except for love's sake only. Do not say 
" I love her for her smile, her look, her way 
Of speaking gently, — for a trick of thought 
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought 
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day." 
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may 
Be changed, or change for thee, — and love, so wrought, 
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for 

Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheek dry, — 
A creature might forget to weep, who bore 

Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby. 
But love me for love's sake, that evermore 
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity. 

I never gave a lock of hair away 

To a man, Dearest, except this to thee, 

Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully 
I ring out to the full brown length, and say, 
Take it ! " My day of youth went yesterday ; 

My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee, 

Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree, 
As girls do, any more. It only may 
Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears, 

Taught drooping from the head that hangs aside 
Through sorrow's trick. I thought the funeral shears 

Would take this first, but love is justified, — 
Take it thou, — finding pure, from all those years, 

The kiss my mother left here when she died. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning 



9 c 



^b™?™ 11 ' IHarcJ) tfje ®%itf&8xzt 



TOUJOURS AMOUR 

Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin, 
At what age does Love begin ? 
Your blue eyes have scarcely seen 
Summers three, my fairy queen, 
But a miracle of sweets, 
Soft approaches, sly retreats, 
Show the little archer there, 
Hidden in your pretty hair; 
When didst learn a heart to win? 
Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin ! 

" Oh ! " the rosy lips reply, 

" I can't tell you if I try. 
'Tis so long I can't remember : 
Ask some younger lass than I ! " 

Tell, oh, tell me, Grizzled-Face, 
Do your heart and head keep pace ? 
When does hoary Love expire, 
When do frosts put out the fire ? 
Can its embers burn below 
All that chill December snow ? 
Care you still soft hands to press, 
Bonny heads to smooth and bless ? 
When does Love give up the chase ? 
Tell, oh, tell me, Grizzled-Face ! 

" Ah ! " the wise old lips reply, 
" Youth may pass and strength may die ; 
But of Love I can't foretoken : 
Ask some older sage than I ! " 

Edmwid Clarence Stedman 



9i 



3prti tjje JFirst 



THE LOST MISTRESS 

All's over, then: does truth sound bitter 

As one at first believes ? 
Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter 

About your cottage eaves ! 

And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, 

I noticed that, to-day; 
One day more bursts them open fully 

— You know the red turns gray. 

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest ? 

May I take your hand in mine ? 
Mere friends are we, — well, friends the merest 

Keep much that I resign : 

For each glance of the eye so bright and black, 
Though I keep with heart's endeavour, — 

Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back, 
Though it stay in my soul for ever ! — 

Yet I will but say what mere friends say, 

Or only a thought stronger ; 
I will hold your hand but as long as all may, 

Or so very little longer ! 

Robert Browning 



92 



gtpril tfje SeconU 



A TRUE LENT 

Is this a fast, — to keep 
The larder lean, 
And clean 
From fat of veals and sheep ? 

Is it to quit the dish 

Of flesh, yet still 
To fill 
The platter high with fish ? 

Is it to fast an hour, 

Or ragged to go, 
Or show 
A downcast look, and sour ? 

No ! 'tis a fast to dole 

Thy sheaf of wheat, 
And meat, 
Unto the hungry soul. 

It is to fast from strife, 
From old debate 
And hate, — 
To circumcise thy life. 

To show a heart grief-rent ; 
To starve thy sin, 
Not bin, — 
And that's to keep thy lent. 

Robert Herrick 



93 



&pril tfje &i}tr* Geo - rge Herbert ' 



Born 1593 



ECHO'S LAMENT FOR NARCISSUS 

Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears ; 

Yet, slower yet ; O faintly, gentle springs ; 
List to the heavy part the music bears ; 

Woe weeps out her division when she sings. 
Droop herbs and flowers ; 
Fall grief in showers, 
Our beauties are not ours ; 
O, I could still, 
Like melting snow upon some craggy hill, 

Drop, drop, drop, drop, 
Since nature's pride is now a wither'd daffodil. 

Ben Jonson 



THE SPRING 

What bird so sings, yet does so wail ? 
O, 'tis the ravished nightingale ! 
J u g> J u g> j u g> J u g> tereu," she cries, 
And still her woes at midnight rise. 
Brave prick-song! who is't now we hear? 
None but the lark so shrill and clear ; 
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings, 
The morn not waking till she sings. 
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat 
Poor robin-redbreast tunes his note ; 
Hark, how the jolly cuckoos sing ! 
Cuckoo to welcome in the spring, 
Cuckoo to welcome in the spring ! 

John Lyly 



94 



01iv Die r d o !77 S 4 lith ' ^P ril $* jFourtij 



TO PRIMROSES 

FILLED WITH MORNING DEW 

Why do ye weep, sweet babes ? Can tears 
Speak grief in you, 
Who were but born 
Just as the modest morn 
Teemed her refreshing dew? 
Alas ! ye have not known that shower 
That mars a flower; 
Nor felt th' unkind 
Breath of a blasting wind ; 
Nor are ye worn with years ; 

Or warped, as we, 
Who think it strange to see 
Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, 
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. 

Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known 
The reason why 

Ye droop and weep. 
Is it for want of sleep, 
Or childish lullaby ? 
Or, that ye have not seen as yet 
The violet ? 

Or brought a kiss 
From that sweetheart to this? 
No, no ; this sorrow, shown 

By your tears shed, 
Would have this lecture read : — 
That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, 
Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth. 

Robert Herrick 



9S 



^IlTl!tI tll£ "(Fifth Algernon Charles Swinburne, 



Born 1837 



THE YEAR'S AT THE SPRING 

The year's at the spring 
And day's at the morn ; 
Morning's at seven ; 
The hill-side's dew-pearled ; 
The lark's on the wing ; 
The snail's on the thorn : 
God's in his heaven — 
All's right with the world ! 

Robert Browning 



SUMMUM BONUM 

All the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one 
bee: 
All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of 
one gem : 
In the core of one pearl all the shade and the shine of the 
sea: 
Breath and bloom, shade and shine, — wonder, wealth, 
and — how far above them — 

Truth, that's brighter than gem, 
Trust, that's purer than pearl, — 
Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe — all were for 
me 

In the kiss of one girl. 

Robert Browning 



96 



Robert Browning 
1812-1880 



april tije Stxtij 



APRIL 

Now fades the last long streak of snow ; 
Now bourgeons every maze of quick 
About the flowering squares, and thick 

By ashen roots the violets blow. 

Now rings the woodland loud and long, 
The distance takes a lovelier hue, 
And drowned in yonder living blue 

The lark becomes a sightless song. 

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, 
The flocks are whiter down the vale, 
And milkier every milky sail 

On winding stream or distant sea ; 

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 
In yonder greening gleam, and fly 
The happy birds, that change their sky 

To build and brood, that live their lives 

From land to land ; and in my breast 
Spring wakens too ; and my regret 
Becomes an April violet, 

And buds and blossoms like the rest. 

Alfred Tennyson 



97 



april fl)e Sebmtij 



Born 1770 



SPRING 

Now the lusty Spring is seen; 

Golden yellow, gaudy blue, 

Daintily invite the view. 
Everywhere, on every green, 
Roses blushing as they blow, 

And enticing men to pull ; 
Lilies whiter than the snow; 

Woodbines of sweet honey full — 
All love's emblems, and all cry : 
Ladies, if not plucked, we die ! 

Beaumont and Fletcher 



ON HIS BEING ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF 
TWENTY-THREE 

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, 

Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year ! 

My hasting days fly on with full career, 
But my late spring no bud or blossom shevv'th. 
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth 

That I to manhood am arrived so near; 

And inward ripeness doth much less appear 
That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. 
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, 

It shall be still in strictest measure even 

To that same lot, however mean or high, 
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven : 
All is, if I have grace to use it so, 

As ever in my great Taskmaster's eye. 

Joh?i Milton 



aprtl tfje 3Etstrt|> 



TO THE CUCKOO 

blithe new-comer ! I have heard, 

1 hear thee and rejoice : 

Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird, 
Or but a wandering Voice ? 

While I am lying on the grass 
Thy twofold shout I hear ; 
From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
At once far off and near. 

Though babbling only to the vale 
Of sunshine and of flowers, 
Thou bringest unto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring ! 

Even yet thou art to me 

No bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery ; 

The same whom in my school-boy days 

1 listen'd to ; that Cry 

Which made me look a thousand ways 
In bush, and tree, and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green ; 
And thou wert still a hope, a love ; 
Still long'd for, never seen ! 

And I can listen to thee yet ; 
Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 
That golden time again. 

O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace 
Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial, faery place, 
That is fit home for Thee ! 

William Wordsworth 
LofC. 99 



3prtl tfje Nintfj 



TO DAFFODILS 

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see 

You haste away so soon : 
As yet the early-rising Sun 

Has not attain'd his noon. 
Stay, stay, 

Until the hasting day 
Has run 

But to the even-song ; 
And, having pray'd together, we 

Will go with you along. 

We have short time to stay, as you, 

We have as short a Spring; 
As quick a growth to meet decay 
As you, or any thing. 

We die, 
As your hours do, and dry 

Away 
Like to the Summer's rain ; 
Or as the pearls of morning's dew 
Ne'er to be found again. 

Robert Herrick 



Dante Gabriel^Rossetti, g^ ^ ^^ 



SPRING 

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king ; 
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, 
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, 
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! 

The palm and may make country houses gay, 
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, 
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, 
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo. 

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, 
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, 
In every street these tunes our ears do greet, 
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! 
Spring ! the sweet Spring ! 

Thomas Nash 



UNDER THE GREENWOOD-. TREE 

Under the greenwood tree 
Who loves to lie with me, 
And turn his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird's throat — 
Come hither, come hither, come hither 
Here shall he see 
No enemy 
But winter and rough weather. 

Who doth ambition shun 
And loves to live i' the sun, 
Seeking the food he eats 
And pleased with what he gets — 
Come hither, come hither, come hither ! 
Here shall he see 
No enemy 
But winter and rough weather. 

William Shakespeare 



&prtl tfje Eiebentij 



WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING 

I heard a thousand blended notes 

While in a grove I sate reclined, 

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 

Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 

To her fair works did Nature link 
The human soul that through me ran ; 
And much it grieved my heart to think 
What Man has made of Man. 

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, 
The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths ; 
And 'tis my faith that every flower 
Enjoys the air it breathes. 

The birds around me hopp'd and play'd, 
Their thoughts I cannot measure, — 
But the least motion which they made 
It seem'd a thrill of pleasure. 

The budding twigs spread out their fan 
To catch the breezy air ; 
And I must think, do all I can, 
That there was pleasure there. 

If this belief from heaven be sent, 
If such be Nature's holy plan, 
Have I not reason to lament 
What Man has made of Man ? 

William Wordsworth 



<april tije Sfodftj) 



TO DAISIES, NOT TO SHUT SO SOON 

Shut not so soon : the dull-ey'd night 

Has not as yet begun 
To make a seizure on the light, 

Or to seal up the sun. 

No marigolds yet closed are, 

No shadows great appear, 
Nor doth the early shepherd's star 

Shine like a spangle here. 

Oh, stay but till my Julia close 

Her life-begetting eye, 
And let the whole world then dispose 

Itself to live or die ! 

Robert Herrick 



THE PRIMROSE 

Ask me why I send you here 

This sweet Infanta of the year? 

Ask me why I send to you 

This primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew? 

I will whisper to your ears : — 

The sweets of love are mix'd with tears. 

Ask me why this flower doth show 
So yellow-green, and sickly too ? 
Ask me why the stalk is weak 
And bending (yet it doth not break) ? 
I will answer : — These discover 
What fainting hopes are in a lover. 

Robert Herrick 



103 



Sprtl tfje ©IjirteentJj 



WELCOME, WELCOME 

Welco7ne, welcome, do I sing, 
Far more welco7ne than the spring; 
He that pa7'teth front you never, 
Shall enjoy a spring for ever. 

Love, that to the voice is near, 

Breaking from your ivory pale, 
Need not walk abroad to hear 

The delightful nightingale. 

Love, that looks still on your eyes, 

Though the winter have begun 
To benumb our arteries, 

Shall not want the summer's sun. 

Love, that still may see your cheeks, 

Where all rareness still reposes, 
Is a fool if e'er he seeks 

Other lilies, other roses. 

Love, to whom your soft lip yields, 
And perceives your breath in kissing, 

All the odours of the fields 
Never, never shall be missing. 

Love, that question would anew 

What fair Eden was of old, 
Let him rightly study you, 

And a brief of that behold. 

Welco??ie, welco77te, then I sing, 
Far more welco77ie tha7i the spri7ig; 
He that pa7'teth fr 0771 you 7iever, 
Shall e7ijoy a spri7igfor ever. 

Willia7n Browne 



104 



&prtl tj}e iFourteentfn 



THE MAID OF NEIDPATH 

O lovers' eyes are sharp to see, 

And lovers' ears in hearing ; 
And love, in life's extremity, 

Can lend an hour of cheering. 
Disease had been in Mary's bower 

And slow decay from mourning, 
Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower 

To watch her Love's returning. 

All sunk and dim her eyes so bright, 

Her form decay'd by pining, 
Till through her wasted hand, at night, 

You saw the taper shining. 
By fits a sultry hectic hue 

Across her cheek was flying ; 
By fits so ashy pale she grew 

Her maidens thought her dying. 

Yet keenest powers to see and hear 

Seem'd in her frame residing ; 
Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear 

She heard her lover's riding ; 
Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd 

She knew and waved to greet him, 
And o'er the battlement did bend 

As on the wing to meet him. 

He came — he pass'd — an heedless gaze 

As o'er some stranger glancing ; 
Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase, 

Lost in his courser's prancing — 
The castle-arch, whose hollow tone 

Returns each whisper spoken, 
Could scarcely catch the feeble moan 

Which told her heart was broken. 

Sir Walter Scott 



105 



Spril ttre jFifteentJj 



Matthew Arnold, 
Died 1S88 



AE FOND KISS 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ! 
Ae fareweel, and then for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee! 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae cheerf u' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy — 
Naething could resist my Nancy: 
But to see her was to love her, 
Love but her, and love for ever. 
Had we never loved sae kindly, 
Had we never loved sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ! 
Ae fareweel, alas ! for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee; 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 

Robert Burns 



I FEAR THY KISSES, GENTLE MAIDEN 

I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden; 
Thou needest not fear mine ; 
My spirit is too deeply laden, 
Ever to burthen thine. 

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion ; 
Thou needest not fear mine ; 
Innocent is the heart's devotion 
With which I worship thine. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 
1 06 



&jml tije .Sixteentfj 



TELL ME WHERE IS FANCY BRED 

Tell me where is Fancy bred, 
Or in the heart, or in the head? 
How begot, how nourished ? 
Reply, reply. 

It is engender'd in the eyes ; 
With gazing fed ; and Fancy dies 
In the cradle where it lies : 
Let us all ring Fancy's knell ; 
I'll begin it, — Ding, dong, bell. 
— Ding, dong, bell. 

William Shakespeare 



I PRITHEE SEND ME BACK MY HEART 

I prithee send me back my heart, 

Since I cannot have thine ; 
For if from yours you will not part, 

Why then should'st thou have mine ? 

Yet, now I think on't, let it lie ; 

To find it were in vain; 
For thou'st a thief in either eye 

Would steal it back again. 

Why should two hearts in one breast lie, 

And yet not lodge together ? 
O Love ! where is thy sympathy 

If thus our breasts thou sever? 

But love is such a mystery, 

I cannot find it out ; 
For when I think I'm best resolved 

I then am most in doubt. 

Then farewell care, and farewell woe ; 

I will no longer pine ; 
For I'll believe I have her heart 
As much as she hath mine. 

Sir John Suckling 
107 



april tije Sebenteentfj Hen Bo y rI"f 2 han ' 



THE AGE OF WISDOM 

Ho ! pretty page, with the dimpled chin, 
That never has known the barber's shear, 

All your wish is woman to win ; 

This is the way that boys begin — 
Wait till you come to forty year. 

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains ; 

Billing and cooing is all your cheer — 
Sighing and singing of midnight strains, 
Under Bonnybell's window-panes — 

Wait till you come to forty year. 

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass; 

Grizzling hair the brain doth clear ; 
Then you know a boy is an ass, 
Then you know the worth of a lass — 

Once you have come to forty year. 

Pledge me round ; I bid ye declare, 

All good fellows whose beards are gray — 

Did not the fairest of the fair 

Common grow and wearisome ere 
Ever a month was past away ? 

The reddest lips that ever have kissed, 

The brightest eyes that ever have shone, 
May pray and whisper and we not list, 
Or look away and never be missed — 
Ere yet ever a month is gone. 

Gillian's dead ! God rest her bier — 
How I loved her twenty years syne ! 

Marian's married ; but I sit here, 

Alone and merry at forty year, 

Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. 

William Makepeace Thackeray 



[oS 



&prtl tfje !£ist)teentij 



MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go ! 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 
The birthplace of valour, the country of worth ; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 

Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow ; 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go ! 

Robert Burns 



"THALATTA" 

CRY OF THE TEN THOUSAND 

I stand upon the summit of my years ; 

Behind, the toil, the camp, the march, the strife, 

The wandering and the desert ; vast, afar, 

Beyond this weary way, behold ! the Sea ! 

The sea o'erswept by clouds and winds and wings, 

By thoughts and wishes manifold, whose breath 

Is freshness and whose mighty pulse is peace. 

Palter no question of the dim Beyond ; 

Cut loose the bark ; such voyage itself is rest ; 

Majestic motion, unimpeded scope, 

A widening heaven, a current without care. 

Eternity ! — Deliverance, Promise, Course ! 

Time-tired souls salute thee from the shore. 

Joseph Brownlee Brown 



109 



april tije Nineteenth) 



Died 1824 



LONDON, 1802 

O Friend ! I know not which way I must look 

For comfort, being, as I am, opprest 

To think that now our life is only drest 

For show ; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, 

Or groom ! — We must run glittering like a brook 
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest ; 
The wealthiest man among us is the best : 
No grandeur now in nature or in book 

Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, 
This is idolatry ; and these we adore : 
Plain living and high thinking are no more : 

The homely beauty of the good old cause 
Is gone ; our peace, our fearful innocence, 
And pure religion breathing household laws. 

William Wordsworth 



THE SAME 

Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour : 
England hath need of thee : she is a fen 
Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, 
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 

Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men : 
Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; 
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : 
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea, 
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free ; 

So didst thou travel on life's common way 
In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 
The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 

William Wordsworth 
no 



Spril tfje Efoenttetij 



FRIENDS IN PARADISE 

They are all gone into the world of light! 

And I alone sit lingering here ; 
Their very memory is fair and bright, 

And my sad thoughts doth clear : — 

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, 

Like stars upon some gloomy grove, 
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest, 
After the sun's remove. 

I see them walking in an air of glory, 

Whose light doth trample on my days : 
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, 
Mere glimmering and decays. 

O holy Hope ! and high Humility, 

High as the heavens above ! 
These are your walks, and you have shew'd 

them me, 

To kindle my cold love. 

Dear, beauteous Death ! the jewel of the just, 

Shining no where, but in the dark ; 

What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, 

Could man outlook that mark! 

He that hath found some fledg'd bird's nest 

may know 
At first sight, if the bird be flown ; 
But what fair well or grove he sings in now, 

That is to him unknown. 

And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams 

Call to the soul, when man doth sleep ; 
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted 
themes, 
And into glory peep. 

Henry Vaughan 



april tije &foentg=first 



THE NIGHT 

Through that pure virgin shrine, 

That sacred veil drawn o'er Thy glorious noon, 
That men might look and live, as glow-worms shine 

And face the moon : 
Wise Nicodemus saw such light 
As made him know his God by night. 

No mercy-seat of gold, 
No dead and dusty cherub, nor carved stone, 
But His own living works did my Lord hold 
And lodge alone ; 
Where trees and herbs did watch and peep 
And wonder, while the Jews did sleep. 

Dear Night! this world's defeat; 
The stop to busy fools ; Care's check and curb ; 
The day of Spirits ; my soul's calm retreat 
Which none disturb ! 

Christ's progress, and his prayer time ; 

The hours to which high Heaven doth chime. 

There is in God — some say — 
A deep, but dazzling darkness ; as men here 
Say it is late and dusky, because they 
See not all clear. 
Oh for that Night! where I in Him 
Might live invisible and dim ! 

He?iry Vaughan 



&jml tfje Etomts^econtr 



JESUS, LOVER OF MY SOUL 

Jesus lover of my soul, 

Let me to Thy bosom fly, 
While the nearer waters roll, 

While the tempest still is high ! 
Hide me, O my Saviour, hide, 

Till the storm of life is past ; 
Safe into the haven guide, 

Oh receive my soul at last ! 

Other refuge have I none, 

Hangs my helpless soul on Thee; 
Leave, ah ! leave me not alone, 

Still support and comfort me ! 
All my trust on Thee is stayed, 

All my help from Thee I bring ; 
Cover my defenceless head 

With the shadow of Thy wing. 

Wilt Thou not regard my call ? 

Wilt Thou not accept my prayer? 
Lo ! I sink, I faint, I fall, — 

Lo ! on Thee I cast my care ; 
Reach me out Thy gracious hand, 

While I of Thy strength receive ! 
Hoping against hope I stand, — 

Dying, and behold I live ! 

Plenteous grace with Thee is found, — 

Grace to cover all my sin ; 
Let the healing streams abound, 

Make and keep me pure within : — 
Thou of life the Fountain art, 

Freely let me take of Thee ; 
Spring Thou up within my heart, 

Rise to all eternity ! 

Charles Wesley 



"3 



&Ptil t&e JCtoCT^^lfa* wS WordsTonh', SH It 6 



AN EPITAPH ON THE ADMIRABLE DRA- 
MATIC POET, W. SHAKESPEARE 

What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones, 

The labour of an age in piled stones ? 

Or that his hallowed relics should be hid 

Under a star-ypointing pyramid ? 

Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, 

What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name ? 

Thou in our wonder and astonishment 

Hast built thyself a livelong monument. 

For whilst to the shame of slow-endeavouring art 

Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart 

Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book 

Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, 

Then thou our fancy of itself bereaving, 

Dost make us marble with too much conceiving ; 

And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie, 

That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. 

John Milton 



114 



John Milton 
1608-1674 



&prtl ttje Etoentg^ourtf) 



THE DAFFODILS 



I wander'd lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host of golden daffodils, 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way, 
They stretch'd in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay : 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced, but they 

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : — 

A Poet could not but be gay 

In such a jocund company ! 

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought ; 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the daffodils. 

William Wordsworth 



"5 



april tlje &foent2=fitftij mi B^T T ' 



ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA 

You meaner beauties of the night, 

That poorly satisfy our eyes 
More by your number than your light, 

You common people of the skies, 
What are you, when the Moon shall rise ? 

You curious chanters of the wood 

That warble forth dame Nature's lays, 

Thinking your passions understood 

By your weak accents ; what's your praise 

When Philomel her voice doth raise ? 

You violets that first appear, 

By your pure purple mantles known 

Like the proud virgins of the year, 
As if the spring were all your own, — 

What are you, when the Rose is blown ? 

So when my Mistress shall be seen 

In form and beauty of her mind, 
By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, 

Tell me, if she were not design'd 
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind ? 

Sir Henry Wotton 



116 



William Shakespeare, g^l ^ &foetttg=StXtf} 



Baptised 1564 



MARY MORISON 

Mary, at thy window be, 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let me see 
That make the miser's treasure poor : 
How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 
A weary slave frae sun to sun, 
Could I the rich reward secure, 
The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen when to the trembling string 
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 
To thee my fancy took its wing, — 

1 sat, but neither heard nor saw : 
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, 
And yon the toast of a' the town, 

I sigh'd, and said amang them a', 
" Ye are na Mary Morison." 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace 
Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 
Whase only faut is loving thee ? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie, 
At least be pity to me shown ; 
A thought ungentle canna be 
The thought o' Mary Morison. 

Robert Burns 



TAKE, O TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY 

Take, O take those lips away 
That so sweetly were forsworn, 
And those eyes, the break of day, 
Lights that do mislead the morn : 
But my kisses bring again, 

Bring again — 
Seals of love, but seal'd in vain, 

Seal'd in vain ! 

William Shakespeare 
"7 



&}ml tije Etoattg^cbmtfj Ralph Sid^fr 16 " 011 ' 

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY 

Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile — 
Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes, 
Thy rosy lips still wear a smile 
And move, and breathe delicious sighs ! 

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks 
And mantle o'er her neck of snow : 
Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks 
What most I wish — and fear to know ! 

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps ! 
Her fair hands folded on her breast: 
— And now, how like a saint she sleeps ! 
A seraph in the realms of rest ! 

Sleep on secure ! Above controul 
Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee : 
And may the secret of thy soul 
Remain within its sanctuary ! 

Sa?nuel Rogers 



LOVE'S DISGUISES 

The merchant, to secure his treasure, 
Conveys it in a borrow'd name : 
Euphelia serves to grace my measure, 
But Cloe is my real flame. 

My softest verse, my darling lyre 
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay — 
When Cloe noted her desire 
That I should sing, that I should play. 

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise, 
But with my numbers mix m)* sighs ; 
And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise, 
I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes. 

Fair Cloe blush'd : Euphelia frown'd : 
I sung, and gazed : I play'd, and trembled : 
And Venus to the Loves around 
Remark'd how ill we all dissembled. 

. Matthew Prior 
nS 



^prtl tfje Etonttgtftgljtfj 



LEONARD TARRIES LONG 

The sun upon the lake is low, 

The wild birds hush their song, 
The hills have evening's deepest glow, 

Yet Leonard tarries long. 
Now all whom varied toil and care 

From home and love divide, 
In the calm sunset may repair 

Each to the loved one's side. 

The noble dame, on turret high, 

Who waits her gallant knight, 
Looks to the western beam to spy 

The flash of armour bright. 
The village maid, with hand on brow 

The level ray to shade, 
Upon the footpath watches now 

For Colin's darkening plaid. 

Now to their mates the wild swans row, 

By day they swam apart, 
And to the thicket wanders slow 

The hind beside the hart. 
The woodlark at his partner's side 

Twitters his closing song — 
All meet whom day and care divide, 

But Leonard tarries long ! 

Sir Walter Scott 



119 



CONSTANCY 

Not, Celia, that I juster am 

Or better than the rest; 
For I would change each hour, like them, 

Were not my heart at rest. 

But I am tied to very thee 

By every thought I have ; 
Thy face I only care to see, 

Thy heart I only crave. 

All that in woman is adored 

In thy dear self I find — 
For the whole sex can but afford 

The handsome and the kind. 

Why then should I seek further store, 

And still make love anew ? 
When change itself can give no more, 

'Tis easy to be true. 

Sir Charles Sedley 

JEAN 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 

I dearly like the West, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best : 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy' s flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair : 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air: 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green, 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings 

But minds me o' my Jean. 

Robert Burns 

I20 



LOVE IS A SICKNESS 

Love is a sickness full of woes, 

All remedies refusing ; 
A plant that most with cutting grows, 
Most barren with best using. 
Why so ? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 
Heigh-ho ! 

Love is a torment of the mind, 

A tempest everlasting ; 
And Jove hath made it of a kind, 
Not well, nor full, nor fasting. 
Why so ? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 
Heigh-ho ! 

Samuel Daniel 



TRUE REST 

Rest is not quitting 

The busy career ; 
Rest is the fitting 

Of self to its sphere. 

'Tis the brook's motion, 

Clear without strife, 
Fleeing to ocean 

After its life. 

Deeper devotion 

Nowhere hath knelt; 
Fuller emotion 

Heart never felt. 

'Tis loving and serving 

The highest and best; 
'Tis onwards ! unswerving — 

And that is true rest. 

John Sullivan Dwight 



jaag tije jFtat j^SSM^ 



MAY MORNING 

Now the bright morning-star, Day's harbinger, 
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her 
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws 
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. 
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire 
Mirth and youth and warm desire ! 
Woods and groves are of thy dressing, 
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. 
Thus we salute thee with our early song, 
And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 

John Milton 



TO THE NIGHTINGALE 

O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray 

Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, 
Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, 

While the jolly hours lead on propitious May. 

Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of day, 
First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, 
Portend success in love. Oh, if Jove's will 

Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay, 

Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate 

Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh ; 

As thou from year to year hast sung too late 
For my relief, yet hadst no reason why. 

Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, 
Both them I serve, and of their train am I. 

John Milton 



Jttag tfje Second 



THE RHODORA 

ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER? 

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, 
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, 
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, 
To please the desert and the sluggish brook. 
The purple petals, fallen in the pool, 
Made the black water with their beauty gay; 
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, 
And court the flower that cheapens his array. 
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why 
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, 
Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, 
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being : 
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose, 
I never thought to ask, I never knew : 
But, in my simple ignorance, suppose 
The self-same Power that brought me there brought you. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson 



DEATH 

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee 
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so : 
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow 
Die not, poor Death ; nor yet canst thou kill me. 
From Rest and Sleep, which but thy picture be, 
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow; 
And soonest our best men with thee do go — 
Rest of their bones and souls' delivery ! 
Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, 
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell ; 
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well 
And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then ? 
One short sleep past, we wake eternally, 
And Death shall be no more : Death, thou shalt die ! 

John Donne 



123 



Jlag tjje Cljirti Th S"« 



SISTER, AWAKE 

From Thomas Bateson's " First Set of English Madrigals," 1604 

Sister, awake ! close not your eyes, 

The Day her light discloses, 
And the bright Morning doth arise 

Out of her bed of roses. 

See, the clear Sun, the world's bright eye, 

In at our window peeping ; 
Lo ! how he blusheth to espy 

Us idle wenches sleeping. 

Therefore, awake ! make haste, I say, 

And let us, without staying, 
All in our gowns of green so gay, 

Into the park a-maying ! 

Anon 

FEATHERS 

There falls with every wedding chime 
A feather from the wing of Time. 
You pick it up, and say " How fair 
To look upon its colours are ! " 
Another drops day after day 
Unheeded ; not one word you say. 
When bright and dusky are blown past, 
Upon the hearse there nods the last. 

Walter Savage Landor 



124 



JHag fije jFourtij 



PHILLIDA AND CORYDON 

In the merrie moneth of Maye, 
In a morne by break of daye, 
With a troupe of damsells playing, 
Forth I yode forsooth a-maying ; 

Where anon by a wood side, 
Whenas Maye was in his pride, 
I espied all alone 
Phillida and Corydon. 

Much adoe there was, God wot ; 
He wold love, and she wold not. 
She sayd never man was trewe ; 
He sayes none was false to you. 

He sayde hee had lovde her longe ; 
She sayes love should have no wronge. 
Corydon wold kisse her then ; 
She sayes maids must kisse no men, 

Tyll they doe for good and all, 
When she made the shepperde call 
All the heavens to wytnes truthe, 
Never loved a truer youthe. 

Then with many a prettie othe, 
Yea and naye, and faithe and trothe — 
Such as seelie shepperdes use 
When they will not love abuse — 

Love, that had bene long deluded, 
Was with kisses sweete concluded ; 
And Phillida with garlands gaye 
Was made the ladye of the Maye. 

Nicholas Breton 



125 



JWag ttje jfiftfj 



GIVE ME MORE LOVE OR MORE DISDAIN 

Give me more love or more disdain ; 

The torrid or the frozen zone 
Brings equal ease unto my pain ; 

The temperate affords me none ; 
Either extreme, of love or hate, 
Is sweeter than a calm estate. 

Give me a storm ; if it be love, 
Like Danae in a golden shower, 

I swim in pleasure ; if it prove 
Disdain, that torrent will devour 

My vulture hopes ; and he's possessed 

Of heaven that's but from hell released; 

Then crown my joys, or cure my pain ; 

Give me more love or more disdain. 

Thomas Carew 



THE ROSARY 

The hours I spent with thee, dear heart, 

Are as a string of pearls to me ; 
I count them over, every one apart, 
My rosary. 

Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer, 

To still a heart in absence wrung ; 
I tell each bead unto the end and there 
A cross is hung. 

Oh memories that bless — and burn ! 
Oh barren gain — and bitter loss ! 
I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learn 
To kiss the cross, 
Sweetheart, 

To kiss the cross. 

Robert Camero?i Rogers 



126 



Henry Dr e d d x8^ oreau ' Jflag ttje Sixtl) 



UNDER THE LINDENS 

Under the lindens lately sat 
A couple, and no more, in chat ; 
I wondered what they would be at 
Under the lindens. 

I saw four eyes and four lips meet, 
I heard the words, How sweet / how sweet / 
Had then the Faeries given a treat 
Under the lindens ? 

I pondered long and could not tell 
What dainty pleased them both so well : 
Bees ! bees ! was it your hydromel 
Under the lindens ? 

Walter Savage Landor 



TO A FAIR MAIDEN 

Fair maiden ! when I look at thee 
I wish I could be young and free ; 
But both at once, ah ! who could be ? 

Walter Savage Landor 



127 



Jfflag tfje Sebentfi Rob BornX iDg ' 



EPILOGUE 

TO ASOLANDO 

At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time 

When you set your fancies free, 
Will they pass to where — by death, fools think, im- 

prison'd — 
Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so, 

— Pity me ? 

Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken ! 

What had I on earth to do 
With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly? 
Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel 

— Being — who ? 

One who never turn'd his back but march'd breast forward, 

Never doubted clouds would break, 
Never dream'd, though right were worsted, wrong would 

triumph, 
Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, 
Sleep to wake. 

No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-time 

Greet the unseen with a cheer ! 
Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be, 
" Strive and thrive ! " cry " Speed, — fight on, fare ever 
There as here ! " 

Robert Browning 



128 



J&ag tfje Etfljjtij 



AWAKE, MY HEART 

Awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake ! 
The darkness silvers away, the morn doth break, 
It leaps in the sky: unrisen lustres shake 
The o'ertaken moon. Awake, O heart, awake ! 

She too that loveth awaketh and hopes for thee : 
Her eyes already have sped the shades that flee, 
Already they watch the path thy feet shall take: 
Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake ! 

And if thou tarry from her, — if this could be, — 
She cometh herself, O heart, to be loved, to thee ; 
For thee would unashamed herself forsake: 
Awake to be loved, my heart, awake, awake ! 

Awake, the land is scattered with light, and see, 
Uncanopied sleep is flying from field and tree : 
And blossoming boughs of April in laughter shake ; 
Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake ! 

Lo all things wake and tarry and look for thee : 
She looketh and saith, " O sun, now bring him to me. 
Come more adored, O adored, for his coming's sake, 
And awake, my heart, to be loved : awake, awake ! " 

Robert Bridges 



129 



jWag tfje Nintf} Fried l5! 1 edT8o S s chmer ' 

TO A LOVER 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 

Prithee, why so pale ? 
Will, if looking well can't move her, 

Looking ill prevail ? 

Prithee, why so pale ? 

Why so dull and mute, young sinner ? 

Prithee, why so mute ? 
Will, when speaking well can't win her, 

Saying nothing do't ? 

Prithee, why so mute ? 

Quit, quit, for shame ! this will not move, 

This cannot take her; 
If of herself she will not love, 

Nothing can make her : 

The devil take her ! 

Sir John Suckling 

CHERRY-RIPE 

There is a garden in her face 

Where roses and white lilies blow; 

A heavenly paradise is that place, 
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow ; 

There cherries grow that none may buy, 

Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry. 

Those cherries fairly do enclose 

Of orient pearl a double row, 
Which when her lovely laughter shows, 

They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow : 
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, 
Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry. 

Her eyes like angels watch them still ; 

Her brows like bended bows do stand, 
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill 

All that approach with eye or hand 
These sacred cherries to come nigh, 
Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry ! 

Thomas Campion 
130 



JKag ttre ftenttj 



THE MERRY LARK 

The merry, merry lark was up and singing, 

And the hare was out and feeding on the lea, 
And the merry, merry bells below were ringing, 

When my child's laugh rang through me. 
Now the hare is snared and dead beside the snowyard, 

And the lark beside the dreary winter sea, 
And my baby in his cradle in the churchyard 

Waiteth there until the bells bring me. 

Charles Kingsley 



TO PERILLA 

Ah, my Perilla ! dost thou grieve to see 

Me, day by day, to steal away from thee ? 

Age calls me hence, and my gray hairs bid come, 

And haste away to mine eternal home ; 

'Twill not be long, Perilla, after this 

That I must give thee the supremest kiss. 

Dead when I am, first cast in salt, and bring 

Part of the cream from that religious spring, 

With which, Perilla, wash my hands and feet; 

That done, then wind me in that very sheet 

Which wrapp'd thy smooth limbs when thou didst 

implore 
The gods' protection, but the night before ; 
Follow me weeping to my turf, and there 
Let fall a primrose, and with it a tear. 
Then lastly, let some weekly strewings be 
Devoted to the memory of me ; 
Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keep 
Still in the cool and silent shades of sleep. 

Robert Herrick 



131 



JHag tfje lEIcirctttJj 



SONG 

Has summer come without the rose, 

Or left the bird behind ? 
Is the blue changed above thee, 

O world ! or am I blind ? 
Will you change every flower that grows, 

Or only change this spot, 
Where she who said, I love thee, 

Now says, I love thee not ? 

The skies seem'd true above thee, 

The rose true on the tree ; 
The bird seem'd true the summer through, 

But all proved false to me. 
World ! is there one good thing in you, 

Life, love, or death — or what ? 
Since lips that sang, I love thee, 

Have said, I love thee not ? 

I think the sun's kiss will scarce fall 

Into one flower's gold cup ; 
I think the bird will miss me, 

And give the summer up. 
O sweet place ! desolate in tall 

Wild grass, have you forgot 
How her lips loved to kiss me, 

Now that they kiss me not? 

Be false or fair above me, 

Come back with any face, 
Summer! — do I care what you do? 

You cannot change one place — 
The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew, 

The grave I make the spot — 
Here, where she used to love me, 

Here, where she loves me not. 

Arthur 0' } Shaughnessy 



132 



Dante Gabriel Rossetti 



B G om n xt8 ossetti ' Wag tfje SCtoeKttj 



ALL FOR LOVE 

Oh talk not to me of a name great in story ; 
The days of our youth are the days of our glory ; 
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two and twenty 
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is 

wrinkled ? 
'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew be-sprinkled : 
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary — 
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory ? 

Fame ! — if I ere took delight in thy praises, 
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, 
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover 
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee ; 
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee ; 
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, 

1 knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 

Lord Byron 



BONNIE WEE THING 

cannie wee thing ! 

Lovely wee thing ! wert thou mine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom, 

Lest my jewel I should tine. 
Wishfully I look, and languish 

In that bonnie face o' thine ; 
And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, 

Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Wit and grace, and love and beauty, 

In ae constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duty, 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 

Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom, 

Lest my jewel I should tine. 

Robert Burns 
'33 



jjHag flje SDijirtenitl) 



JOCK OF HAZELDEAN 

" Why weep ye by the tide, ladie ? 

Why weep ye by the tide ? 
I'll wed ye to my youngest son, 

And ye sail be his bride : 
And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 

Sae comely to be seen" — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

" Now let this wilfu' grief be done, 

And dry that cheek so pale ; 
Young Frank is chief of Errington 

And lord of Langley-dale ; 
His step is first in peaceful ha', 

His sword in battle keen " — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

" A chain of gold ye sail not lack, 

Nor braid to bind your hair, 
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, 

Nor palfrey fresh and fair ; 
And you the foremost o' them a' 

Shall ride our forest-queen " — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide, 

The tapers glimmer'd fair ; 
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, 

And dame and knight are there : 
They sought her baith by bower and ha' ; 

The ladie was not seen ! 
She's o'er the Border, and awa' 

Wi' Jock of Hazledean. 

Sir Walter Scott 



134 



JHag ttje Jourteentij 



TOO LATE 

" Dowglas, Dowglas, tendir and treu " 

Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, 

In the old likeness that I knew, 
I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, 

Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

Never a scornful word should grieve ye, 
I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do; 

Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

Oh, to call back the days that are not ! 

My eyes were blinded, your words were few : 
Do you know the truth now, up in heaven, 

Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ? 

I never was worthy of you, Douglas ; 

Not half worthy the like of you : 
Now all men beside seem to me like shadows — 

I love you, Douglas, tender and true. 

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, 
Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew ; 

As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ! 

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik 



ON WOMAN 

When lovely woman stoops to folly 
And finds too late that men betray, — 

What charm can soothe her melancholy, 
What art can wash her guilt away ? 

The only art her guilt to cover, 

To hide her shame from every eye, 
To give repentance to her lover 
And wring his bosom, is — to die. 

Oliver Goldsmith 
*35 



iEag ttje jftftecntfj 



NEVER THE TIME AND THE PLACE 

Never the time and the place 

And the loved one all together ! 
This path — how soft to pace ! 

This May — what magic weather! 
Where is the loved one's face ? 
In a dream that loved one's face meets mine, 
But the house is narrow, the place is bleak 
Where, outside, rain and wind combine 
With a furtive ear, if I strive to speak, 
With a hostile eye at my flushing cheek, 
With a malice that marks each word, each sign 
O enemy sly and serpentine, 

Uncoil thee from the waking man ! 
Do I hold the Past 
Thus firm and fast 
Yet doubt if the Future hold I can ? 
This path so soft to pace shall lead 
Thro' the magic of May to herself indeed ! 
Or narrow if needs the house must be, 
Outside are the storms and strangers: we — 
Oh, close, safe, warm sleep I and she, 
— I and she ! 

Robert Browning 



13O 



iUlag t|}e Sixteenth 



WANTING IS — WHAT? 

Wanting is — what? 

Summer redundant, 

Blueness abundant, 

— Where is the blot ? 
Beamy the world, yet a blank all the same, 
— - Framework which waits for a picture to frame : 
What of the leafage, what of the flower? 
Roses embowering with naught they embower ! 
Come then, complete incompletion, O comer, 
Pant through the blueness, perfect the summer! 

Breathe but one breath 

Rose-beauty above, 

And all that was death 

Grows life, grows love, 
Grows love ! 

Robert Browning 



MEETING 

They made the chamber sweet with flowers and leaves, 
And the bed sweet with flowers on which I lay ; 
While my soul, love-bound, loiter'd on its way. ■ 

I did not hear the birds about the eaves, 

Nor hear the reapers talk among the sheaves : 
Only my soul kept watch from day to day, 
My thirsty soul kept watch for one away : — 

Perhaps he loves, I thought, remembers, grieves. 

At length there came the step upon the stair, 

Upon the lock the old familiar hand : 
Then first my spirit seem'd to scent the air 

Of Paradise ; then first the tardy sand 
Of time ran golden ; and I felt my hair 

Put on a glory, and my soul expand. 

Christina Georgina Rossetti 



137 



JHag tfje Sefaenteentfj 



THE LESSONS OF NATURE 

Of this fair volume which we World do name 
If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care, 
Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame, 
We clear might read the art and wisdom rare : 

Find out His power which wildest powers doth tame, 

His providence extending everywhere, 

His justice which proud rebels doth not spare, 

In every page, no period of the same. 

But silly we, like foolish children, rest 
Well pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold, 
Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best, 
On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold ; 

Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught, 
It is some picture on the margin wrought. 

William Drummond 



LOVE'S OMNIPRESENCE 

Were I as base as is the lowly plain, 
And you, my Love, as high as heaven above, 
Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain 
Ascend to heaven, in honour of my Love. 

Were I as high as heaven above the plain, 
And you, my Love, as humble and as low 
As are the deepest bottoms of the main, 
Whereso'er you were, with you my love should go. 

Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies, 

My love should shine on you like to the sun, 

And look upon you with ten thousand eyes 

Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done. 

Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you, 
Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you. 

Joshua Sylvester 
138 



John Wilson^ristopher North), J^g fl>* Itg&teetttlj 



EARL MARCH LOOK'D ON HIS DYING CHILD 

Earl March look'd on his dying child, 
And, smit with grief to view her — 

The youth, he cried, whom I exiled 
Shall be restored to woo her. 

She's at the window many an hour 

His coming to discover: 
And he look'd up to Ellen's bower 

And she look'd on her lover — 

But ah ! so pale, he knew her not, 

Though her smile on him was dwelling — 

And am I then forgot — forgot ? 
It broke the heart of Ellen. 

In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, 

Her cheek is cold as ashes; 
Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes 

To lift their silken lashes. 

Thomas Campbell 



TO HIS LOVE 

When in the chronicle of wasted time 
I see descriptions of the fairest wights, 
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme 
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights ; 

Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best 
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, 
I see their antique pen would have exprest 
Ev'n such a beauty as you master now. 

So all their praises are but prophecies 
Of this our time, all, you prefiguring ; 
And for they look'd but with divining eyes, 
They had not skill enough your worth to sing : 

For we, which now behold these present days, 
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. 

William Shakespeare 
139 



IHag tfje Ntneteentij 



HUNTING SONG 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
On the mountain dawns the day; 
All the jolly chase is here 
With hawk and horse and hunting-spear; 
Hounds are in their couples yelling, 
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, 
Merrily merrily mingle they, 
" Waken, lords and ladies gay." 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
The mist has left the mountain gray, 
Springlets in the dawn are steaming, 
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming; 
And foresters have busy been 
To track the buck in thicket green ; 
Now we come to chant our lay, 
" Waken, lords and ladies gay." 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
To the greenwood haste away; 
We can show you where he lies, 
Fleet of foot and tall of size ; 
We can show the marks he made 
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd ; 
You shall see him brought to bay ; 
" Waken, lords and ladies gay." 

Louder, louder chant the lay 

Waken, lords and ladies gay ! 

Tell them youth and mirth and glee 

Run a course as well as we ; 

Time, stern huntsman ! who can baulk, 

Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk ; 

Think of this, and rise with day, 

Gentle lords and ladies gay ! 

Sir Walter Scott 



140 



Sir Walter Scott 
1771-1832 



ffag tfje Etoentteti) 



THE TABLES TURNED 

Up ! up, my friend ! and quit your books, 

Or surely you'll grow double ; 
Up ! up, my friend ! and clear your looks ! 

Why all this toil and trouble ? 

The sun, above the mountain's head, 

A freshening lustre mellow 
Through all the long green fields has spread, 

His first sweet evening yellow. 

Books ! 'tis a dull and endless strife ; 

Come, hear the woodland linnet — 
How sweet his music ! on my life, 

There's more of wisdom in it ! 

And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings ! 

He, too, is no mean preacher ; 
Come forth into the light of things — 

Let Nature be your teacher. 

She has a world of ready wealth, 
Our minds and hearts to bless, — 

Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 
Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 

One impulse from a vernal wood 

May teach you more of man, 
Of moral evil and of good, 

Than all the sages can. 

Sweet is the lore which nature brings ; 

Our meddling intellect 
Misshapes the beauteous forms of things — 

We murder to dissect. 

Enough of science and of art ; 

Close up those barren leaves ; 
Come forth, and bring with you a heart 
That watches and receives. 

Willia7n Wordsworth 
Hi 



Hag ttje Efoatt2=first 



Alexander Pope, 
Born 1688 



CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE 

How happy is he born and taught 
That serve th not another's will ; 
Whose armour is his honest thought 
And simple truth his utmost skill! 

Whose passions not his masters are, 
Whose soul is still prepared for death, 
Untied unto the world by care 
Of public fame, or private breath ; 

Who envies none that chance doth raise 
Nor vice ; who never understood 
How deepest wounds are given by praise ; 
Nor rules of state, but rules of good : 

Who hath his life from rumours freed, 
Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; 
Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 
Nor ruin make oppressors great ; 

Who God doth late and early pray 
More of His grace than gifts to lend ; 
And entertains the harmless day 
With a religious book or friend ; 

— This man is freed from servile bands 
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; 
Lord of himself, though not of lands ; 
And having nothing, yet hath all. 

Sir Henry Wotton 



142 



v £°e r d?88 g 5 °' JHag tije Etoentg=seconti 



THE HEATH THIS NIGHT MUST BE MY 
BED 

SONG OF THE YOUNG HIGHLANDER SUMMONED FROM 
THE SIDE OF HIS BRIDE BY THE "FIERY CROSS" OF 
RODERICK DHU 

The heath this night must be my bed, 
The bracken curtain for my head, 
My lullaby the warder's tread, 

Far, far from love and thee, Mary; 
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid 
My couch may be my bloody plaid, 
My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid ! 

It will not waken me, Mary ! 

I may not, dare not, fancy now 

The grief that clouds thy lovely brow, 

I dare not think upon thy vow, 

And all it promised me, Mary. 
No fond regret must Norman know; 
When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe, 
His heart must be like bended bow, 

His foot like arrow free, Mary. 

A time will come with feeling fraught ! 
For, if I fall in battle fought, 
Thy hapless lover's dying thought 

Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. 
And if returned from conquered foes, 
How blithely will the evening close, 
How sweet the linnet sing repose, 

To my young bride and me, Mary ! 

Sir Walter Scott 



143 



Jfiag flje 5HBn%tijirti 



Born 1799 



CONTEMPLATE ALL THIS WORK 

Contemplate all this work of Time, 
The giant labouring in his youth ; 
Nor dream of human love and truth 

As dying Nature's earth and lime ; 

But trust that those we call the dead 
Are breathers of an ampler day 
For ever nobler ends. They say 

The solid earth whereon we tread 

In tracts of fluent heat began, 

And grew to seeming-random forms, 
The seeming prey of cyclic storms, 

Till at the last arose the man — 

Who throve and branch'd from clime to clime, 

The herald of a higher race, 

And of himself in higher place, 
If so he type this work of time 

Within himself, from more to more ; 
Or, crown'd with attributes of woe 
Like glories, move his course, and show 

That life is not an idle ore, 

But iron dug from central gloom, 

And heated hot with burning fears, 
And dipp'd in baths of hissing tears, 

And batter'd with the shocks of doom 

To shape and use. Arise and fly 

The reeling Faun, the sensual feast! 
Move upward, working out the beast, 

And let the ape and tiger die ! 

Alfred Tennyson 



144 



JHag tfje Efoetttg^ourtf) 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still ! 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride : 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 

Lord Byron 



H5 



Jftag tfje Efoentg^fifttj Ralph Bom°£r son ' 



THE MEN OF OLD 

I know not that the men of old 

Were better than men now, 
Of heart more kind, of hand more bold, 

Of more ingenuous brow : 
I heed not those who pine for force 

A ghost of Time to raise, 
As if they thus could check the course 

Of these appointed days. 

To them was life a simple art 

Of duties to be done, 
A game where each man took his part, 

A race where all must run ; 
A battle whose great scheme and scope 

They little cared to know, 
Content, as men at arms, to cope 

Each with his fronting foe. 

Man now his Virtue's diadem 

Puts on and proudly wears, 
Great thoughts, great feelings, came to them, 

Like instincts, unawares : 
Blending their souls' sublimest needs 

With tasks of every day, 
They went about their gravest deeds, 

As noble boys at play. 

Richard Monckton Milnes {Lord Houghton) 



146 



tije Etoentgtfixtlj 



THE NIGHTINGALE 

As it fell upon a day 

In the merry month of May, 

Sitting in a pleasant shade 

Which a grove of myrtles made, 

Beasts did leap and birds did sing, 

Trees did grow and plants did spring; 

Every thing did banish moan 

Save the Nightingale alone. 

She, poor bird, as all forlorn, 

Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn, 

And there sung the dolefull'st ditty 

That to hear it was great pity. 

Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry ; 

Teru, teru, by and by : 

That to hear her so complain 

Scarce I could from tears refrain ; 

For her griefs so lively shown 

Made me think upon mine own. 

— Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain, 

None takes pity on thy pain : 

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee, 

Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee ; 

King Pandion, he is dead, 

All thy friends are lapp'd in lead : 

All thy fellow birds do sing 

Careless of thy sorrowing : 

Even so, poor bird, like thee 

None alive will pity me. 

Richard Barnefield 



HI 



Jfiag tfje STtanttg^ebentij 



THE MOTHER'S DREAM 

I'd a dream to-night 
As I fell asleep, 
Oh ! the touching sight 
Makes me still to weep : 
Of my little lad, 
Gone to leave me sad, 
Aye, the child I had, 
But was not to keep. 

As in heaven high, 
I my child did seek, 
There, in train, came by 
Children fair and meek, 
Each in lily white, 
With a lamp alight; 
Each was clear to sight, 
But they did not speak. 

Then, a little sad, 
Came my child in turn, 
But the lamp he had, 
Oh ! it did not burn ; 
He, to clear my doubt, 
Said, half turn'd about, 
" Your tears put it out ; 
Mother, never mourn." 

William Barnes 

A RAINBOW 

My heart leaps up when I behold 

A rainbow in the sky : 
So was it when my life began, 
So is it now I am a man, 
So be it when I shall grow old 

Or let me die ! 
The Child is father of the Man: 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 

William Wordsworth 
148 



JHag tfje Wmtnt&tigbib 



Born 1779 



TO THOMAS MOORE 

My boat is on the shore, 

And my bark is on the sea ; 
But before I go, Tom Moore, 

Here's a double health to thee ! 

Here's a sigh to those who love me, 

And a smile to those who hate ; 
And, whatever sky's above me, 

Here's a heart for every fate ! 

Though the ocean roar around me, 

Yet it still shall bear me on ; 
Though a desert should surround me, 

It hath springs that may be won. 

Were 't the last drop in the well, 

As I gasped upon the brink, 
Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'Tis to thee that I would drink. 

With that water, as this wine, 

The libation I would pour 
Should be, — Peace with thine and mine, 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore ! 

Lord Byron 



A SEA DIRGE 

Full fathom five thy father lies : 

Of his bones are coral made ; 
Those are pearls that were his eyes : 
Nothing of him that doth fade, 
But doth suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange. 
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell ; 
Hark ! now I hear them, — 
Ding, dong, bell. 

William Shakespeare 
149 



JHag tfje Etocnt^nintij 



CHILD'S EVENING HYMN 

Now the day is over, 

Night is drawing nigh, 
Shadows of the evening 

Steal across the sky. 

Now the darkness gathers, 

Stars begin to peep, 
Birds and beasts and flowers 

Soon will be asleep. 

Jesu, give the weary 

Calm and sweet repose ; 
With Thy tenderest blessing 

May our eyelids close. 

Grant to little children 

Visions bright of Thee ; 
Guard the sailors tossing 

On the deep blue sea. 

Comfort every sufferer 

Watching late in pain ; 
Those who plan some evil 

From their sin restrain. 

Through the long night-watches 

May Thine angels spread 
Their white wings above me, 

Watching round my bed. 

When the morning wakens, 

Then may I arise 
Pure and fresh and sinless 

In Thy holy eyes. 

Glory to the Father, 
Glory to the Son, 
And to Thee, bless'd Spirit, 
Whilst all ages run. Amen. 

Sabine Baring-Gould 
150 



Alexander Pope, 
Died 1744 



Jttag tfje &f)trtterti 



THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL 

Vital spark of heavenly flame ! 
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame ! 
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, 
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying ! 
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, 
And let me languish into life ! 



Hark! they whisper; angels say, 
Sister spirit, come away ! 
What is this absorbs me quite ? 
Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ? 
'Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? 

The world recedes ; it disappears ! 
Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears 

With sounds seraphic ring : 
Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly ! 
O Grave ! where is thy victory ? 

O Death ! where is thy sting ? 

Alexander Pope 



TRUTH IS GREAT 

Here, in this little Bay, 
Full of tumultuous life and great repose, 
Where, twice a day, 

The purposeless, glad ocean comes and goes, 
Under high cliffs, and far from the huge town, 
I sit me down. 

For want of me the world's course will not fail ; 
When all its work is done, the lie shall rot; 
The truth is great, and shall prevail, 
When none cares whether it prevail or not. 

Coventry Patmore 



151 



Jfiag tlje &I)u%first Wa ™ tman ' 



1819 



DIVINA COMMEDIA 

Oft have I seen, at some cathedral door, 
A labourer, pausing in the dust and heat, 
Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet 
Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor 

Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er ; 
Far off the noises of the world retreat; 
The loud vociferations of the street 
Become an undistinguishable roar. 

So, as I enter here from day to day, 

And leave my burden at this minster gate, 
Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray, 

The tumult of the time disconsolate 
To inarticulate murmurs dies away, 
While the eternal ages watch and wait. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 



A RETROSPECT 

There are some wishes that may start 

Nor cloud the brow nor sting the heart. 

Gladly then would I see how smiled 

One who now fondles with her child ; 

How smiled she but six years ago, 

Herself a child, or nearly so. 

Yes, let me bring before my sight 

The silken tresses chain'd up tight, 

The tiny fingers tipt with red 

By tossing up the strawberry -bed ; 

Half-open lips, long violet eyes, 

A little rounder with surprise. 

And then (her chin against the knee) 

Mamma ! who can that stranger be ? 

How grave the smile he smiles on me ! " 

Walter Savage Landor 



S 2 



Chnstopher Marlowe, J^ ^ jj^ 



SONG TO THE EVENING STAR 

Star that bringest home the bee, 
And sett'st the weary labourer free ! 
If any star shed peace, 'tis Thou 

That send'st it from above, 
Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow 

Are sweet as hers we love. 

Come to the luxuriant skies, 
Whilst the landscape's odours rise, 
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard 

And songs when toil is done, 
From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd 

Curls yellow in the sun. 

Star of love's soft interviews, 
Parted lovers on thee muse ; 
Their remembrancer in Heaven 

Of thrilling vows thou art, 
Too delicious to be riven 

By absence from the heart. 

Thomas Campbell 



WITHOUT AND WITHIN 

A FRAGMENT 

Love in her sunny eyes doth basking play ; 

Love walks the pleasant mazes of her hair ; 
Love does on both her lips for ever stray, 

And sows and reaps a thousand kisses there : 
In all her outward parts Love's always seen ; 
But oh ! he never went within. 

Abraha7n Cowley 



*53 



June tfje .Seconfc 



A PRAYER TO FATE 

Fate ! I have asked few things of thee, 

And fewer have to ask. 
Shortly, thou knowest, I shall be 

No more : then con thy task. 

If one be left on earth so late 

Whose love is like the past, 
Tell her in whispers, gentle Fate ! 

Not even love must last. 

Tell her I leave the noisy feast 

Of life, a little tired, 
Amid its pleasures few possessed 

And many undesired. 

Tell her with steady pace to come 

And, where my laurels lie, 
To throw the freshest on the tomb, 

When it has caught her sigh. 

Tell her to stand some steps apart 

From others on that day, 
And check the tear (if tear should start) 

Too precious for dull clay. 

Walter Savage Landor 



'54 



3tmc tfte 5Tl}trtr 



A BARD'S EPITAPH 

Is there a whim-inspired fool, 

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, 

Let him draw near, 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 

And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic song, 

Who, noteless, steals the crowd among, 

That weekly this area throng, 

O, pass not by ! 
But, with a frater-feeling strong, 

Here heave a sigh. 

Is there a man whose judgment clear 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, 

Wild as the wave ; 
Here pause, and, through the starting tear, 

Survey this grave. 
• 
The poor inhabitant below 
Was quick to learn and wise to know, 
And keenly felt the friendly glow, 

And softer flame ; 
But thoughtless follies laid him low, 

And stain'd his name ! 

Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkly grubs this earthly hole, 

In low pursuit ; 
Know prudent, cautious self-control 

Is wisdom's root. 

Robert Burns 



155 



3nnt tfje jFourtfj 



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT 
CORUNNA 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 

The sods with our bayonets turning ; 
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light 

And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollow'd tiis narrow bed 

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 

And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone 

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — 
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 

In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring: 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, 
But we left him alone with his glory. 

Charles Wolfe 
156 



Sunt tfje jFtftfj 



BATTLE -HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord : 
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath 

are stored ; 
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift 

sword : 

His truth is marching on. 

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling 

camps ; 
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and 

damps ; 
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring 

lamps : 

His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel : 
" As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace 

shall deal ; 
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his 

heel, 

Since God is marching on." 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call 
retreat ; 

He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment- 
seat : 

Oh ! be swift, my soul, to answer Him ! be jubilant my feet ! 
Our God is marching on. 

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, 
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me ; 
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men 
free, 

While God is marching on. 

Julia Ward Howe 



157 



Sunt tfje Stxtij 



ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY 

Mortality, behold and fear 
What a change of flesh is here ! 
Think how many royal bones 
Sleep within these heaps of stones ; 
Here they lie, had realms and lands, 
Who now want strength to stir their hands, 
Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust 
They preach, " In greatness is no trust." 
Here's an acre sown indeed 
With the richest, royallest seed 
That the earth did e'er suck in 
Since the first man died for sin : 
Here the bones of birth have cried, 
" Though gods they were, as men they died ! " 
Here are sands, ignoble things, 
Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings : 
Here's a world of pomp and state 
Buried in dust, once dead by fate. 

Francis Beaumont 



TO THE MOON 

Art thou pale for weariness 
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, 

Wandering companionless 
Among the stars that have a different birth, — 
And ever changing, like a joyless eye 
That finds no object worth its constancy? 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 



158 



Sunt tije Sebetttfj 



CONCORD HYMN 

Sung at the completion of the Battle Monument, April 19, 1836 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, 

Here once the embattled farmers stood, 
And fired the shot heard round the world. 

The foe long since in silence slept; 

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; 
And Time the ruined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 

On this green bank, by this soft stream, 

We set to-day a votive stone, 
That memory may their deed redeem, 

When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 

Spirit, that made those heroes dare 
To die, and leave their children free, 

Bid Time and Nature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them and thee. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson 

THE MINSTREL BOY 

The minstrel boy to the war has gone, 
In the ranks of death you'll find him, 

His father's sword he has girded on, 
And his wild harp slung behind him. 
" Land of song ! " said the warrior bard, 

" Though all the world betrays thee, 

One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, 
One faithful harp shall praise thee ! " 

The minstrel fell ! — but the foeman's chain 

Could not bring his proud soul under; 
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, 

For he tore its chords asunder, 
And said, " No chains shall sully thee, 

Thou soul of love and bravery ! 
Thy songs were made for the pure and free, 

They shall never sound in slavery ! " 

Thomas Moore 
i59 



3unt tije lEigijrtj 



O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! 

O Captain ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done, 

The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought 

is won, 
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, 
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and 
daring ; 

But O heart ! heart ! heart ! 
O the bleeding drops of red, 

Where on the deck my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead. 

O Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ; 
Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle 

trills, 
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths — for you the 

shores acrowding, 
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces 
turning ; 

Here Captain ! dear father ! 
This arm beneath your head ! 

It is some dream that on the deck 
You've fallen cold and dead. 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, 
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, 
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and 

done, 
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object 
won; 

Exult O shores, and ring O bells ! 
But I, with mournful tread, 

Walk the deck my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead. 

Walt Whitman 



[60 



3tme ti)c Ntntfj 



A WEARY LOT IS THINE 

A weary lot is thine, fair maid, 

A weary lot is thine ! 
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, 

And press the rue for wine. 
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 

A feather of the blue, 
A doublet of the Lincoln green — 

No more of me you knew 
My Love ! 
No more of me you knew. 

This morn is merry June, I trow, 

The rose is budding fain ; 
But she shall bloom in winter snow 

Ere we two meet again." • 
He turn'd his charger as he spake 

Upon the river shore, 
He gave the bridle-reins a shake, 

Said " Adieu for evermore 

My Love ! 
And adieu for evermore." 

Sir Walter Scott 



161 



Sunt tije ftentfj 



THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH 

There are gains for all our losses, 

There are balms for all our pain : 
But when youth, the dream, departs, 
It takes something from our hearts, 
And it never comes again. 

We are stronger, and are better, 
Under manhood's sterner reign : 

Still we feel that something sweet 

Followed youth, with flying feet, 
And will never come again. 

Something beautiful is vanished, 

And we sigh for it in vain : 
We behold it everywhere, 
On the earth, and in the air, 

But it never comes again. 

Richard Henry Stoddard 



THE FLIGHT 

Upon a cloud among the stars we stood. 

The angel raised his hand and looked and said, 

" Which world, of all yon starry myriad, 
Shall we make wing to? " The still solitude 
Became a harp whereon his voice and mood 
Made spheral music round his haloed head. 
I spake — for then I had not long been dead — 

" Let me look round upon the vasts, and brood 
A moment on these orbs ere I decide . . . 
What is yon lower star that beauteous shines 
And with soft splendour now incarnadines 
Our wings? — There would I go and there abide." 
He smiled as one who some child's thought divines : 

" That is the world where yesternight you died." 

Lloyd Mifflin 



162 



3tme tfje JSlefcentij 



THE GLIMPSE 

Just for a day you crossed my life's dull track, 
Put my ignobler dreams to sudden shame, 

Went your bright way, and left me to fall back 
On my own world of poorer deed and aim ; 

To fall back on my meaner world, and feel 

Like one who, dwelling 'mid some smoke-dimmed 
town, — 
In a brief pause of labour's sullen wheel, — 

'Scaped from the street's dead dust and factory's 
frown, — 

In stainless daylight saw the pure seas roll, 
Saw mountains pillaring the perfect sky : 

Then journeyed home, to carry in his soul 
The torment of the difference till he die. 

William Watson 



TO STELLA 

Stella, think not that I by verse seek fame, 
Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee ; 
Thine eyes my pride, thy lips mine history : 
If thou praise not, all other praise is shame. 
Nor so ambitious am I as to frame 
A nest for my young praise in laurel tree : 
In truth, I swear, I wish not there should be 
Graved in my epitaph a poet's name. 
Nor, if I would, could I just title make, 
That any laud thereof to me should grow, 
Without my plumes from others' wings I take : 
For nothing from my wit or will doth flow, 
Since all my words thy beauty doth endite, 
And Love doth hold my hand and makes me write. 

Sir Philip Sidney 



163 



Mm $e mat® SSSJSoJjBSSS 1878 



HEAR, YE LADIES 

Hear, ye ladies that despise 

What the mighty Love has done ; 
Fear examples, and be wise : 

Fair Calisto was a nun ; 
Leda, sailing on the stream 

To deceive the hopes of man, 
Love accounting but a dream, 

Doted on a silver swan ; 
Danae, in a brazen tower, 
Where no love was, loved a shower. 

Hear, ye ladies that are coy, 

What the mighty Love can do ; 
Fear the fierceness of the boy : 

The chaste Moon he makes to woo; 
Vesta, kindling holy fires, 

Circled round about with spies, 
Never dreaming loose desires, 
Doting at the altar dies ; 

Illion, in a short hour, higher 
He can build, and once more fire. 

John Fletcher. 



LIFE 

Like to the falling of the star, 
Or as the flights of eagles are, 
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, 
Or silver drops of morning dew, 
Or, like the wind that chafes the flood, 
Or bubbles which on water stood — 
E'en such is man, whose borrowed light 
Is straight called in, and paid to-night. 
The wind blows out, the bubble dies, 
The spring entombed in autumn lies, 
The dew dries up, the star is shot, 
The flight is past — and man forgot ! 

Henry King 
164 



Joseph Addison 
1672-1719 



3une tfje STijirteentfj 



DISCIPLINE 

Throw away Thy rod, 
Throw away Thy wrath; 

my God, 
Take the gentle path ! 

For my heart's desire 
Unto Thine is bent : 

1 aspire 

To a full consent. 

Not a word or look 
I affect to own, 

But by book, 
And Thy Book alone. 

Though I fail, I weep; 
Though I halt in pace, 

Yet I creep 
To the throne of grace. 

Then let wrath remove ; 
Love will do the deed ; 

For with love 
Stony hearts will bleed. 

Love is swift of foot ; 
Love's a man of war, 

And can shoot, 
And can hit from far. 

Who can 'scape his bow ? 
That which wrought on Thee, 

Brought Thee low, 
Needs must work on me. 

Throw away Thy rod ; 
Though man frailties hath, 

Thou art God : 
Throw away Thy wrath. 

George Herbert 
165 



3\mt flje jFcurtenttfi 



DE SHEEPFOL' 

De massa ob de sheepfoF, 

Dat guards de sheepfol' bin, 

Look out in de gloomerin' meadows, 

Wha'r de long night rain begin — 

So he call to de hirelin' shepa'd, 
" Is my sheep, is dey all come in ? " 

Oh den, says de hirelin' shepa'd : 
" Dey's some, dey's black and thin, 

And some, dey's po' oV wedda's ; 

But de res,' dey's all brung in. 

But de res', dey's all brung in." 

Den de massa ob de sheepfol', 

Dat guards de sheepfol' bin, 

Goes down in de gloomerin' meadows, 

Wha'r de long night rain begin — 

So he le' down de ba's ob de sheepfol', 

Callin' sof, " Come in. Come in." 

Callin' sof, " Come in. Come in." 

Den up t'ro de gloomerin' meadows, 
T'ro de col' night rain and win', 
And up t'ro de gloomerin' rain-paf, 
Wha'r de sleet fa' pie'cin' thin, 
De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol', 
Dey all comes gadderin' in. 
De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol', 
Dey all comes gadderin' in. 

Sarah Pratt McLean Greene 



166 



Th0 Dkd C ?8^ pbe11, Sunt t\)t Jifteentij 



FROM "THE SONG OF MYSELF" 

Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me, 

Afar down I see the huge first Nothing; I know I was 

even there ; 
I waited unseen and always, and slept through the lethargic 

mist, 
And took my time, and took no hurt from the fetid carbon. 

Long I was hugged close — long and long. 

Immense have been the preparations for me, 
Faithful and friendly the arms that have helped me. 
Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful 

boatmen, 
For room to me stars kept aside in their own rings, 
They sent influences to look after what was to hold me. 

Before I was born out of my mother generations guided me, 
My embryo has npver been tc^pid, notLing could overlay it. 

For it the nebula cohered to an orb, 
The long slow strata piled to rest it on, 
Vast vegetables gave it sustenance. 

Monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths and 
deposited it with care. 

All forces have been steadily employed to complete and 

delight me, 
Now on this spot I stand with my robust soul. 

Walt Whitman 



167 



3une tfje Sixteenth 



QUA CURSUM VENTUS 

As ships, becalm'd at eve, that lay 
With canvas drooping, side by side, 

Two towers of sail at dawn of day 

Are scarce long leagues apart descried ; 

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, 
And all the darkling hours they plied, 

Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 
By each was cleaving, side by side : 

E'en so — but why the tale reveal 

Of those, whom year by year unchanged, 

Brief absence join'd anew to feel, 

Astounded, soul from soul estranged? 

At dead of night their sails were fill'd, 
And onward each rejoicing steer'd — 

Ah, neither blame, for neither will'd, 
Or wist, what first with dawn appear'd ! 

To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain, 
Brave barks ! In iighl, in daikntsz too, 

Through winds and tides one compass guides — 
To that, and your own selves, be true. 

But O blithe breeze ! and O great seas, 
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, 

On your wide plain they join again, 
Together lead them home at last ! 

One port, methought, alike they sought, 
One purpose hold where'er they fare, — 

O bounding breeze, O rushing seas ! 
At last, at last, unite them there ! 

Arthur Hugh Clough 



:68 



J ^d A i d 7 t on ' 3wte tlje Sebenteentij 



TO HIS CONSCIENCE 

Can I not sin, but thou wilt be 

My private protonotary ? 

Can I not woo thee, to pass by 

A short and sweet iniquity ? 

I'll cast a mist and cloud upon 

My delicate transgression, 

So utter dark, as that no eye 

Shall see the hugg'd impiety. 

Gifts blind the wise, and bribes do please 

And wind all other witnesses ; 

And wilt not thou with gold be tied, 

To lay thy pen and ink aside, 

That in the mirk and tongueless night, 

Wanton I may, and thou not write ? 

— It will not be : And therefore, now, 

For times to come, 1 '11 make this vow 

From aberrations to live free : 

So I'll not fear the judge, or thee. 

Robert Herrick 



WHERE ARE SIGHS? 

Unless my senses are more dull 
Sighs are become less plentiful. 
Where are they all ? these many years 
Only mine own have reacht my ears. 

Walter Savage Landor 



169 



Sunt tfje 3£igljteentfj 



MELANCHOLY 

Hence, all you vain delights, 

As short as are the nights 

Wherein you spend your folly : 

There's nought in this life sweet 

If man were wise to see't, 

But only melancholy, 

O sweetest Melancholy ! 
Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, 
A sigh that piercing mortifies, 
A look that's fasten'd to the ground, 
A tongue chain'd up without a sound ! 
Fountain-heads and pathless groves, 
Places which pale passion loves ! 
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 
Are warmly housed save bats and owls ! 
A midnight bell, a parting groan ! 
These are the sounds we feed upon; 
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley ; 
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. 

John Fletcher 



170 



Sunt tije Nineteenth 



REVOLUTIONS 

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore 
So do our minutes hasten to their end ; 
Each changing place with that which goes before, 
In sequent toil all forwards do contend. 

Nativity, once in the main of light, 

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, 

Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, 

And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound. 

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, 
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow; 
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, 
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow : — 

And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand 
Praising Thy worth, despite his cruel hand. 

William Shakespeare 



A LAMENT 

My thoughts hold mortal strife ; 

I do detest my life, 

And with lamenting cries 

Peace to my soul to bring 

Oft call that prince which here doth monarchise : 

— But he, grim grinning King, 

Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise, 

Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb, 

Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come. 

William Drummond 



i 7 ] 



Sunt tfje fttoentietfj 



A CONTEMPLATION UPON FLOWERS 

Brave flowers — that I could gallant it like you, 

And be as little vain ! 
You come abroad, and make a harmless show, 
v And to your beds of earth again. 
You are not proud : you know your birth : 
For your embroider'd garments are from earth. 

You do obey your months and times, but I 

Would have it ever Spring : 
My fate would know no Winter, never die, 

Nor think of such a thing. 
Oh that I could my bed of earth but view 
And smile, and look as cheerfully as you ! 

Oh teach me to see Death and not to fear, 

But rather to take truce ! 
How often have I seen you at a bier, 

And there look fresh and spruce ! 
You fragrant flowers ! then teach me, that my breath 
Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death. 

Henry King 



172 



3une tfje SDtoentg^first 



VANITAS VANITATUM 

All the flowers of the spring 
Meet to perfume our burying ; 
These have but their growing prime, 
And man does flourish but his time : 
Survey our progress from our birth — 
We are set, we grow, we turn to earth. 
Courts adieu, and all delights, 
All bewitching appetites ! 
Sweetest breath and clearest eye 
Like perfumes go out and die ; 
And consequently this is done 
As shadows wait upon the sun. 
Vain the ambition of kings 
Who seek by trophies and dead things 
To leave a living name behind, 
And weave but nets to catch the wind. 

John Webster 



MAN 

I know my soul hath power to know all things, 
Yet she is blind and ignorant in all : 
I know I'm one of Nature's little kings, 
Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall. 

I know my life's a pain and but a span ; 
I know my sense is mock'd in everything ; 
And, to conclude, I know myself a Man — 
Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing. 

Sir John Davies 



173 



Sunt ttje Etotttts^ecotrtr 



O COME QUICKLY! 

Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to .shore, 

Never tired pilgrim's limbs affected slumber more, 

Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled 

breast : 
O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest ! 

Ever blooming are the joys of heaven's high Paradise, 
Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our 

eyes : 
Glory there the sun outshines ; whose beams the Blessed 

only see : 
O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to 

Thee! 

Thomas Campion 



DEVOTION 

Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet ! 
Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet ! 
There, wrapt in cloud of sorrow, pity move, 
And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love : 
But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain, 
Then burst with sighing in her sight, and ne'er return 
again ! 

All that I sung still to her praise did tend ; 
Still she was first, still she my songs did end ; 
Yet she my love and music both doth fly, 
The music that her echo is and beauty's sympathy : 
Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight ! 
It shall suffice that they were breath'd and died for her 
delight. 

Thomas Campion 



«74 



Sunt ti)e fttoentg^tfjirti 



SONG 

Seek not the tree of silkiest bark 

And balmiest bud, 
To carve her name while yet 'tis dark 

Upon the wood. 
The world is full of noble tasks, 

And wreaths hard won : 
Each work demands strong hearts, strong hands, 

Till day is done. 

Sing not that violet- veined skin, 

That cheek's pale roses, 
The lily of that form wherein 

Her soul reposes : 
Forth to the fight, true man, true knight; 

The clash of arms 
Shall more prevail than whispered tale 

To win her charms. 

The warrior for the True, the Right, 

Fights in Love's name : 
The love that lures thee from that fight 

Lures thee to shame : 
The love which lifts the heart, yet leaves 

The spirit free, 
That love, or none, is fit for one 

Man-shaped, like thee. 

Aubrey De Vere 



175 



3ime tfje &foent2J=fourtlj 



TO DEATH 

Thou bidst me come away, 
And I'll no longer stay, 
Than for to shed some tears 
For faults of former years ; 
And to repent some crimes 
Done in the present times ; 
And next, to take a bit 
Of bread, and wine with it ; 
To don my robes of love, 
Fit for the place above ; 
To gird my loins about 
With charity throughout ; 
And so to travel hence 
With feet of innocence ; 
These done, I'll only cry, 
" God, mercy ! " and so die. 

Robert Herrick 



MORNING PRAYER 

When with the virgin morning thou dost rise, 
Crossing thyself, come thus to sacrifice ; 
First wash thy heart in innocence ; then bring 
Pure hands, pure habits, pure, pure every thing. 

Robert Herrick 



176 



3tme tije &foetttg;fiftf) 



THE NILE 

It flows through old hush'd Egypt and its sands, 
Like some grave mighty thought threading a dream, 
And times and things, as in that vision, seem 

Keeping along it their eternal stands, — 

Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd bands 

That roam'd through the young world, the glory extreme 
Of high Sesostris, and that southern beam, 

The laughing queen that caught the world's great hands. 
Then comes a mightier silence, stern and strong, 
As of a world left empty of its throng, 

And the void weighs on us ; and then we wake, 
And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along 

'Twixt villages, and think how we shall take 

Our own calm journey on for human sake. 

Leigh Hunt 



"MEN OF ENGLAND, HEIRS OF GLORY" 

(From " The Mask of Anarchy ") 

Men of England, heirs of Glory, 
Heroes of unwritten story, 
Nurslings of one mighty Mother,] 
Hopes of her, and one another ; 

Rise like Lions after slumber 
In unvanquishable number — 
Shake your chains to earth like dew 
Which in sleep had fallen on you — 
Ye are many — they are few. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 



177 



3une tije 2Dtoents=sixt|> 



THE FUTURE 

What may we take into the vast Forever ? 

That marble door 
Admits no fruit of all our long endeavour, 

No fame-wreathed crown we wore, 

No garnered lore. 

What can we bear beyond the unknown portal ? 

No gold, no gains 
Of all our toiling: in the life immortal 

No hoarded wealth remains, 

Nor gilds, nor stains. 

Naked from out that far abyss behind us 

We entered here : 
No word came with our coming, to remind us 

What wondrous world was near, 

No hope, no fear. 

Into the silent, starless Night before us, 

Naked we glide : 
No hand has mapped the constellations o'er us, 

No comrade at our side, 

No chart, no guide. 

Yet fearless toward that midnight, black and hollow, 

Our footsteps fare : 
The beckoning of a Father's hand we follow — 

His love alone is there, 

No curse, no care. 

Edward Rowland Sill 



178 



Sunt tijc Efomtg^ebentJ) 



SHALL I COMPARE THEE TO A SUMMER'S 
DAY? 

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? 
Thou art more lovely and more temperate : 
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, 
And summer's lease hath all too short a date : 

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, 

And often is his gold complexion dimm'd : 

And every fair from fair sometime declines, 

By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd. 

But thy eternal summer shall not fade 
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ; 
Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade, 
When in eternal lines to time thou growest : — 

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, 
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 

William Shakespeare 



BRIGHT STAR! WOULD I WERE STEADFAST 
AS THOU ART 

Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art — 
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, 
And watching, with eternal lids apart, 
Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, 

The moving waters at their priestlike task 
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, 
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask 
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors : — 

No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, 
Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breast 
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, 
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest ; 

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, 
And so live ever, — or else swoon to death. 

John Keats 
179 



3unt tije Etoentgmgljtf) 



Frederick William Faber, 
Born 1814 



SHE CAME AND WENT 

As a twig trembles, which a bird 

Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, 

So is my memory thrilled and stirred ; — 
I only know she came and went. 

As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, 
The blue dome's measureless content, 

So my soul held that moment's heaven ; — 
I only know she came and went 

As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps 
The orchards full of bloom and scent, 

So clove her May my wintry sleeps ; — 
I only know she came and went. 

An angel stood and met my gaze, 

Through the low doorway of my tent ; 

The tent is struck, the vision stays ; — 
I only know she came and went. 

Oh, when the room grows slowly dim, 

And life's last oil is nearly spent, 
One gush of light these eyes will brim, 

Only to think she came and went. 

fames Russell Lowell 



180 



3une tfje Etooitgrnintfj 



THE CONSTANT LOVERS 

(From " Wit Restored," 1658) 

I know as well as you she is not fair, 

Nor hath she sparkling eyes, or curled hair ; 

Nor can she brag of virtue or of truth, 

Or anything about her, save her youth. 

She is a woman too, and to no end, 

I know, I verses write and letters send ; 

And nought I do can to compassion move her ; 

All this I know, yet cannot choose but love her ; 

Yet am not blind, as you and others be, 

Who think and swear they little Cupid see 

Play in their mistress' eyes, and that there dwell 

Roses on cheeks, and that her breasts excel 

The whitest snow, as if that love were built 

On fading red and white, the body's gilt, 

And that I cannot love unless I tell 

Wherein or on what part my love doth dwell. 

Vain heretics you be, for I love more 

Than ever any did that told wherefore ; 

Then trouble me no more, nor tell me why. 

'Tis because she is she, and I am I. 

Anon 



EPITAPH UPON A CHILD THAT DIED 

Here a pretty baby lies 
Sung asleep with lullabies : 
Pray be silent, and not stir 
Th' easy earth that covers her. 

Robert Herrick 



3UUt tjje SHjirtfcti) Etoteth^.toBrawnmg, 



AIRLY BEACON 

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon ; 

O the pleasant sight to see 
Shires and towns from Airly Beacon, 

While my love climb'd up to me ! 

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon ; 

O the happy hours we lay 
Deep in fern on Airly Beacon, 

Courting through the summer's day ! 

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; 

O the weary haunt for me, 
All alone on Airly Beacon, 

With his baby on my knee ! 

Charles Kingsley 



OF HIS LOVE'S BEAUTY 

Have you seen but a bright lily grow 

Before rude hands have touch'd it? 
Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow 

Before the soil hath smutch'd it? 
Have you felt the wool of the beaver? 

Or swan's down ever ? 
Or have smelt o' the bud of the briar ? 

Or the nard in the fire ? 
Or have tasted the bag of the bee? 

O so white ! O so soft ! O so sweet is she ! 

Ben Jonson 



182 



Mg tije jHrst 



WE SAW, AND WOO'D EACH OTHER'S EYES 

We saw, and woo'd each other's eyes, 
My soul contracted then with thine, 

And both burnt in one sacrifice, 

By which our marriage grew divine. 

Let wilder youth, whose soul is sense, 

Profane the temple of delight, 
And purchase endless penitence, 

With the stolen pleasure of one night. 

Time's ever ours, while we despise 

The sensual idol of our clay, 
For though the sun do set and rise, 

We joy one everlasting day, 

Whose light no jealous clouds obscure, 

While each of us shine innocent. 
The troubled stream is still impure, 

With virtue flies away content. 

Thus when to one dark silent room, 
Death shall our loving coffins thrust; 

Fame will build columns on our tomb, 
And add a perfume to our dust. 

William Habington 



183 



3ulg tfje Secontr 



LUCY 

Strange fits of passion have I known; 

And I will dare to tell, 
But in the lover's ear alone, 

What once to me befell. 

When she I loved look'd every day 

Fresh as a rose in June, 
I to her cottage bent my way, 

Beneath an evening moon. 

Upon the moon I fix'd my eye, 

All over the wide lea ; 
With quickening pace my horse drew nigh 

Those paths so dear to me. 

And now we reach'd the orchard-plot ; 

And, as we climb'd the hill, 
The sinking moon to Lucy's cot 

Came near and nearer still. 

In one of those sweet dreams I slept, 

Kind Nature's gentlest boon ! 
And all the while my eyes I kept 

On the descending moon. 

My horse moved on ; hoof after hoof 

He raised, and never stopp'd : 
When down behind the cottage roof, 

At once, the bright moon dropp'd. 

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide 

Into a lover's head ! 
O mercy," to myself I cried, 
" If Lucy should be dead ! " 

William Wordsworth 



184 



3ulg tfje Eljtrtr 



SOMEWHERE OR OTHER 

Somewhere or other there must surely be 
The face not seen, the voice not heard, 
The heart that not yet — never yet — ah me ! 
Made answer to my word. 

Somewhere or other, may be near or far ; 

Past land and sea, clean out of sight ; 
Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star 
That tracks her night by night. 

Somewhere or other, may be far or near; 

With just a wall, a hedge, between ; 
With just the last leaves of the dying year 
Fallen on a turf grown green. 

Christina Georgina Rossetti 



SILENT NOON 

Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass, — 
The finger-points look through like rosy blooms : 
Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms 

'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass. 

All round our nest, far as the eye can pass, 
Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edge 
Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge. 

'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass. 

Deep in the sun-search'd growths the dragon-fly 
Hangs like a blue thread loosen'd from the sky : — 

So this wing'd hour is dropt to us from above. 
Oh ! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower, 
This close-companion'd inarticulate hour 

When twofold silence was the song of love. 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti 



185 



?iltTYY ftlfr 4^rt1tH4t Charles Tennyson-Turner, Born i 

JJUIJJ l\)K JJIHXUI) Nathaniel Hawthorne, Born 1804 



OLD IRONSIDES 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! 

Long has it waved on high, 
And many an eye has danced to see 

That banner in the sky ; 
Beneath it rung the battle shout, 

And burst the cannon's roar; — 
The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep the clouds no more. 

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, 

Where knelt the vanquished foe, 
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, 

And waves were white below, 
No more shall feel the victor's tread, 

Or know the conquered knee ; 
The harpies of the shore shall pluck 

The eagle of the sea ! 

Oh, better that her shattered hulk 

Should sink beneath the wave ! 
Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 

And there should be her grave ; 
Nail to the mast her holy flag, 

Set every threadbare sail, 
And give her to the god of storms, 

The lightning, and the gale ! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes 



186 



Ms tfje jftftfj 



THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S 
HALLS 

The harp that once through Tara's halls 

The soul of music shed, 
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls 

As if that soul were fled. 
So sleeps the pride of former days, 

So glory's thrill is o'er, 
And hearts that once beat high for praise 

Now feel that pulse no more ! 

No more to chiefs and ladies bright 

The harp of Tara swells ; 
The chord alone that breaks at night 

Its tale of ruin tells. 
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, 

The only throb she gives 
Is when some heart indignant breaks, 

To show that still she lives. 

Thomas Moore 



MUSIC WHEN SOFT VOICES DIE 

Music, when soft voices die, 
Vibrates in the memory ; 
Odours, when sweet violets sicken, 
Live within the sense they quicken ; 

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, 
Are heap'd for the beloved's bed ; 
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, 
Love itself shall slumber on. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 



187 



Mg tije <Stxtij 



THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE 

How many summers, love, 

Have I been thine ? 
How many days, thou dove, 

Hast thou been mine? 
Time, like the winged wind 

When't bends the flowers, 
Hath left no mark behind, 

To count the hours ! 

Some weight of thought, though loath 

On thee he leaves ; 
Some lines of care round both 

Perhaps he weaves ; 
Some fears, — a soft regret 

For joys scarce known ; 
Sweet looks we half forget ; — 

All else is flown ! 

Ah ! — With what thankless heart 

I mourn and sing ! 
Look, where our children start, 

Like sudden spring ! 
With tongues all sweet and low 

Like a pleasant rhyme, 
They tell how much I owe 

To thee and time ! 

Bryan Waller Procter 



188 



Mg tfje Sebentjj 



HARK, HARK! THE LARK 

Hark, hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs 

On chaliced flowers that lies ; 
And winking Mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes ; 
With everything that pretty bin, 

My lady sweet, arise ; 
Arise, arise! 

William Shakespeare 



A SONG FOR MUSIC 

Weep you no more, sad fountains : — 

What need you flow so fast ? 
Look how the snowy mountains 
Heaven's sun doth gently waste ! 
But my Sun's heavenly eyes 
View not your weeping, 
That now lies sleeping 
Softly, now softly lies, 
Sleeping. 

Sleep is a reconciling, 

A rest that peace begets : — 
Doth not the sun rise smiling, 
When fair at even he sets ? 

— Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes ! 
Melt not in weeping ! 
While She lies sleeping 
Softly, now softly lies, 
Sleeping ! 

Anon 



189 



MS tlje lEtgijtfj ^roSxtf^' 



THE BROOK- SIDE 

I wander'd by the brook-side, 

I wander'd by the mill, — 

I could not hear the brook flow, 

The noisy wheel was still ; 

There was no burr of grasshopper, 

Nor chirp of any bird, 

But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

I sal beneath the elm-tree, 

I watch'd the long, long shade, 

And as it grew still longer, 

I did not feel afraid ; 

For I listen'd for a footfall, 

I listen'd for a word, — 

But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

He came not, — no, he came not, — 
The night came on alone, — 
The little stars sat, one by one, 
Each on his golden throne ; 
The evening air pass'd by my cheek, 
The leaves above were stirr'd, — 
But the beating of my own heart 
Was all the sound I heard. 

Fast silent tears were flowing, 
When something stood behind, — 
A hand was on my shoulder, 
I knew its touch was kind : 
It drew me nearer — nearer, — 
We did not speak one word, 
For the beating of our own hearts 
Was all the sound we heard. 

Richard Monckton Milnes 
{Lord Houghton) 



190 



Ms tfje Ntntfj 



SERENADE 

Look out upon the stars, my love, 

And shame them with thine eyes, 
On which, than on the lights above, 

There hang more destinies. 
Night's beauty is the harmony 

Of blending shades and light: 
Then, lady, up, — look out, and be 

A sister to the night ! 

Sleep not ! — thine image wakes for aye 

Within my watching breast ; 
Sleep not ! — from her soft sleep should fly, 

Who robs all hearts of rest. 
Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break, 

And make this darkness gay, 
With looks whose brightness well might make 

Of darker nights a day. 

Edward Coate Pinkney 



SERENADE 

Ah, sweet, thou little knowest how 

I wake and passionate watches keep ; 
And yet, while I address thee now, 

Methinks thou smilest in thy sleep. 
'Tis sweet enough to make me weep, 

That tender thought of love and thee, 
That while the world is hushed so deep, 

Thy soul's perhaps awake to me ! 

Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bride of sleep ! 

With golden visions for thy dower, 
While I this midnight vigil keep, 

And bless thee in thy silent bower ; 
To me 'tis sweeter than the power 

Of sleep, and fairy dreams unfurled, 
That I alone, at this sti!l hour, 

In patient love outwatch the world. 

Thomas Hood 
191 



3ulg tfje &entfj 



SONG, BY TWO VOICES 

(From "The Brides' Tragedy ") 
FIRST VOICE 

Who is the baby, that doth lie 
Beneath the silken canopy 
Of thy blue eye ? 

SECOND 

It is young Sorrow, laid asleep 
In the crystal deep. 

BOTH 

Let us sing his lullaby, 
Heigh o ! a sob and a sigh. 



FIRST VOICE 

What sound is that, so soft, so clear, 
Harmonious as a bubbled tear 
Bursting, we hear ? 

SECOND 

It is young Sorrow, slumber breaking, 
Suddenly awaking. 

BOTH 

Let us sing his lullaby, 
Heigh o ! a sob and a sigh. 

Thomas Lovell Beddoes 



192 



3ulg ttje ISlebentf) 



FAREWELL TO ARMS 

His golden locks time hath to silver turned ; 

O time too swift ! O swiftness never ceasing ! 
His youth 'gainst age, and age at time, hath spurned, 

But spurned in vain ; youth waneth by increasing : 
Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen ; 
Duty, faith, love, are roots and ever green. 

His helmet now shall make an hive for bees, 
And lovers' sonnets turn to holy psalms ; 

A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees, 
And feed on prayers, that are old age's alms: 

But though from court to cottage he depart, 

His saint is sure of his unspotted heart. 

And when he saddest sits in homely cell, 

He'll teach his swains this carol for a song, — 
" Bless'd be the hearts that wish my sovereign well, 
Curs'd be the souls that think her any wrong > " 
Godd~~s, allow this aged man his right 
To be your beadsman now that was your knight. 

George Peele 



193 



3ulg tlje Etoelftlj 



Born 1817 



FAWNIA 

Ah, were she pitiful as she is fair, 

Or but as mild as she is seeming so, 
Then were my hopes greater than my despair, 

Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe ! 
Ah, were her heart relenting as her hand, 

That seems to melt even with the mildest touch, 
Then knew I where to seat me in a land 

Under wide heavens, but yet I know not such. 
So as she shows, she seems the budding rose, 

Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower, 
Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows, 

Compass'd she is with thorns and canker'd bower ; 
Yet were she willing to be pluck'd and worn, 
She would be gather'd, though she grew on thorn. 

Ah, when she sings, all music else be still, 

For none must be compared to her note ; 
Ne'er breath 'd such glee from Philomela's bill, 

Nor from the morning-singer's swelling throat. 
Ah, when she riseth from her blissful bed, 

She comforts all the world, as doth the sun, 
And at her sight the night's foul vapour's fled ; 

When she is set, the gladsome day is done. 
O glorious sun, imagine me thy west, 
Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast ! 

Robert Greene 



194 



Mg tlje Eijtrteentij 



ROSE AYLMER 

Ah what avails the sceptred race, 

Ah what the form divine ! 
What every virtue, every grace ! 

Rose Aylmer, all were thine. 
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes 

May weep, but never see, 
A night of memories and of sighs 

I consecrate to thee. 

Walter Savage Landor 



MARGARET 

Mother, I cannot mind my wheel ; 
My fingers ache, my lips are dry ; 
Oh, if you felt the pain I feel ! 
But oh, who ever felt as I ! 
No longer could I doubt him true, 
All other men may use deceit ; 
He always said my eyes were blue, 
And often swore my lips were sweet. 

Walter Savage Landor 



195 



3ulg tfte Jourteentfj 



SLEEP, ANGRY BEAUTY 

Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me ! 

For who a sleeping lion dares provoke ? 
It shall suffice me here to sit and see 

Those lips shut up that never kindly spoke : 
What sight can more content a lover's mind 
Than beauty seeming harmless, if not kind ? 

My words have charm'd her, for secure she sleeps, 
Though guilty much of wrong done to my love ; 

And in her slumber, see ! she close-eyed weeps : 
Dreams often more than waking passions move. 

Plead, Sleep, my cause, and make her soft like thee : 

That she in peace may wake and pity me. 

Thomas Campion 



ADVICE TO A LOVER 

The sea hath many thousand sands, 
The sun hath motes as many ; 
The sky is full of stars, and Love 
As full of woes as any : 
Believe me, that do know the elf, 
And make no trial by thyself ! 

It is in truth a pretty toy 

For babes to play withal : — 

But O the honeys of our youth 

Are oft our age's gall ! 

Self-proof in time will make thee know 

He was a prophet told thee so ; 

A prophet that, Cassandra-like, 
Tells truth without belief ; 
For headstrong Youth will run his race, 
Although his goal be grief : — 
Love's Martyr, when his heat is past, 
Proves Care's Confessor at the last. 

Anon 
196 



3ulg tije jftfteentlj 



ENCHAINMENT 

I went to her who loveth me no more, 

And prayed her bear with me, if so she might ; 

For I had found day after day too sore, 

And tears that would not cease night after night. 

And so I prayed her, weeping, that she bore 

To let me be with her a little ; yea, 

To soothe myself a little with her sight, 

Who loved me once, ah ! many a night and day. 

Then she who loveth me no more, maybe 
She pitied somewhat: and I took a chain 

To bind myself to her, and her to me ; 
Yea, so that I might call her mine again. 

Lo ! she forbade me not ; but I and she 

Fettered her fair limbs, and her neck more fair, 
Chained the fair wasted white of love's domain, 

And put gold fetters on her golden hair. 

Oh ! the vain joy it is to see her lie 
Beside me once again ; beyond release, 

Her hair, her hand, her body, till she die, 
All mine, for me to do with as I please ! 

For, after all, I find no chain whereby 

To chain her heart to love me as before, 
Nor fetter for her lips, to make them cease 

From saying still she loveth me no more. 

Arthur O 1 Shaughnessy 



197 



3ulg tije Sixteentij 



WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY 

I loved thee once, I'll love no more, 

Thine be the grief as is the blame ; 
Thou art not what thou wast before, 
What reason I should be the same ? 
He that can love unloved again, 
Hath better store of love than brain: 
God send me love my debts to pay, 
While unthrifts fool their love away. 

Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, 

If thou hadst still continued mine ; 
Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own, 
I might perchance have yet been thine. 
But thou thy freedom did recall, 
That if thou might elsewhere inthrall ; 
And then how could I but disdain 
A captive's captive to remain ? 

When new desires had conquered thee, 

And changed the object of thy will, 
It had been lethargy in me, 

Not constancy, to love thee still. 

Yea, it had been a sin to go 

And prostitute affection so, 

Since we are taught no prayers to say 

To such as must to others pray. 

Yet do thou glory in thy choice, 

Thy choice of his good fortune boast ; 
I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice, 
To see him gain what I have lost ; 
The height of my disdain shall be, 
To laugh at him, to blush for thee ; 
To love thee still, but go no more 
A begging to a beggar's door. 

Sir Robert Ay ton 



[9 8 



^orn^' 3falg tije Sebenteentj) 



A WISH 

Happy were he could finish forth his fate 
In some unhaunted desert, where, obscure 
From all society, from love and hate 
Of worldly folk, there should he sleep secure; 

Then wake again, and yield God ever praise ; 
Content with hip, with haws, and brambleberry ; 
In contemplation passing still his days, 
And change of holy thoughts to make him merry : 

Who, when he dies, his tomb might be the bush 
Where harmless robin resteth with the thrush : 
— Happy were he ! 

Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex 



CONTENTMENT 

Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content — 
The quiet mind is richer than a crown ; 

Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent — 
The poor estate scorns fortune's angry frown : 

Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss, 

Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. 

The homely house that harbours quiet rest, 
The cottage that affords no pride or care, 

The mean that 'grees with country music best, 
The sweet consort of mirth and modest fare, 

Obscured life sets down a type of bliss : 

A mind content both crown and kingdom is. 

Robert Greene 



199 



Ms fiie ItBfttentfl) wmiara M ^X Thackeray ' 



HER FIRST-BORN 

It was her first sweet child, her heart's delight: 
And, though we all foresaw his early doom, 
We kept the fearful secret out of sight; 
We saw the canker, but she kiss'd the bloom. 
And yet it might not be : we could not brook 
To vex her happy heart with vague alarms, 
To blanch with fear her fond intrepid look, 
Or send a thrill through those encircling arms. 
She smil'd upon him, waking or at rest : 
She could not dream her little child would die 
She toss'd him fondly with an upward eye : 
She seem'd as buoyant as a summer spray, 
That dances with a blossom on its breast, 
Nor knows how soon it will be borne away. 

Charles Tennyson- Turner 



ON HIMSELF 

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife ; 

Nature I lov'd, and next to Nature, Art ; 
I warm'd both hands before the fire of life ; 

It sinks, and I am ready to depart. 

Walter Savage Landor 



200 



Suijj tije Ntnetemtij 



THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS 

Oft in the stilly night 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
Fond Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me : 
The smiles, the tears 
Of boyhood's years, 
The words of love then spoken ; 
The eyes that shone, 
Now dimm'd and gone, 
The cheerful hearts now broken ! 
Thus in the stilly night 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

When I remember all 

The friends so link'd together 
I've seen around me fall 

Like leaves in wintry weather, 
I feel like one 
Who treads alone 
Some banquet-hall deserted, 
Whose lights are fled, 
Whose garlands dead, 
And all but he departed ! 
Thus in the stilly night 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

Thomas Moore 



201 



Thomas Lovell Beddoes, 



3ulg tije fttoentteti) ""^b^&J 



CONTENTMENT 

I weigh not fortune's frown or smile ; 

I joy not much in earthly joys ; 
I seek not state, I reck not style ; 

I am not fond of fancy's toys : 
I rest so pleased with what I have 
I wish no more, no more I crave. 

I quake not at the thunder's crack ; 

I tremble not at noise of war ; 
I swound not at the news of wrack ; 

I shrink not at a blazing star ; 
I fear not loss, I hope not gain, 
I envy none, I none disdain. 

I see ambition never pleased ; 

I see some Tantals starved in store ; 
I see gold's dropsy seldom eased ; 

I see even Midas gape for more ; 
I neither want nor yet abound, — 
Enough's a feast, content is crowned. 

I feign not friendship where I hate ; 

I fawn not on the great (in show) ; 
I prize, I praise a mean estate, — 

Neither too lofty nor too low : 
This, this is all my choice, my cheer, — 
A mind content, a conscience clear. 

Joshua Sylvester 



202 



Ro DYed? 7 96 ns ' 3ulg tfje Etoentg^firat 



u THE SANDS OF DEE 

" O Mary, go and call the cattle home, 
And call the cattle home, 
And call the cattle home, 
Across the sands o' Dee ! " 
The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, 
And all alone went she. 

The western tide crept up along the sand, 
And o'er and o'er the sand, 
And round and round the sand, 
As far as eye could see ; 
The rolling mist came down and hid the land, 
And never home came she. 

" Oh is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — 
A tress o' golden hair, 
A drowned maiden's hair — 
Above the nets at sea ? 
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, 
Among the stakes on Dee." 

They row'd her in across the rolling foam — 
The cruel, crawling foam, 
The cruel, hungry foam, — 
To her grave beside the sea ; 
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home 
Across the sands o' Dee. 

Charles Kingsley 



203 



3ulg tije Etomtjj=geam& 



THE HAPPY HEART 

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers ? 

O sweet content ! 
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed ? 

O punishment ! 
Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed 
To add to golden numbers, golden numbers ? 
O sweet content ! O sweet, O sweet content ! 

Work apace, apace, apace, apace ; 

Honest labour bears a lovely face ; 
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny ! 

Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring ? 

O sweet content! 
Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own 
tears ? 

O punishment ! 
Then he that patiently want's burden bears 
No burden bears, but is a king, a king ! 
O sweet content ! O sweet, O sweet content ! 
Work apace, apace, apace, apace ; 
Honest labour bears a lovely face ; 
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny ! 

Thomas Dekker 



204 



Cove B n Sr8 a 2 t r re ' 3ulg tije Etomtg^irti 



PER PACEM AD LUCEM 

I do not ask, O Lord, that life may be 

A pleasant road ; 
I do not ask that Thou wouldst take from me 

Aught of its load ; 

I do not ask that flowers should always spring 

Beneath my feet ; 
I know too well the poison and the sting 

Of things too sweet. 

For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord, I plead, 

Lead me aright — 
Though strength should falter, and though heart 
should bleed — 

Through Peace to Light. 

I do not ask, O Lord, that Thou shouldst shed 

Full radiance here ; 
Give but a ray of peace, that I may tread 

Without a fear. 

I do not ask my cross to understand, 

My way to see ; 
Better in darkness just to feel Thy hand 

And follow Thee. 

Joy is like restless day ; but peace divine 

Like quiet night : 
Lead me, O Lord, — till perfect Day shall shine, 

Through Peace to Light. 

Adelaide Anne Procter 



205 



Sulg tlje Ctomtg-fourtfj 



GOD MOVES IN A MYSTERIOUS WAY 

God moves in a mysterious way 

His wonders to perform ; 
He plants His footsteps in the sea, 

And rides upon the storm. 

Deep in unfathomable mines 

Of never-failing skill 
He treasures up His bright designs, 

And works His sovereign will. 

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take ! 

The clouds ye so much dread 
Are big with mercy, and shall break 

In blessings on your head. 

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, 

But trust Him for his grace ; 
Behind a frowning providence 

He hides a smiling face. 

His purposes will ripen fast, 

Unfolding every hour; 
The bud may have a bitter taste, 

But sweet will be the flower. 

Blind unbelief is sure to err, 

And scan His work in vain ; 
God is His own interpreter, 

And He will make it plain. 

William Cowper 



206 



William Camper 
1731-1800 



s ^lJ%^ Co ^ d ^ Sitta tije Etoentg=fi£tlj 



ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S 
HOMER 

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold 
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; 
Round many western islands have I been 
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 

That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne . 

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : 

— Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
When a new planet swims into his ken ; 
Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes 

He stared at the Pacific — and all his men 
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — 
Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 

John Keats 



FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED WALL 

Flower in the crannied wall, 

I pluck you out of the crannies, 

I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, 

Little flower — but if I could understand 

What you are, root and all, and all in all, 

I should know what God and man is. 

Alfred Tennyson 



207 



3ulg tfje ffitonrtg^ixtfj Winthrop B ^S 1 rth Praed * 



JOY 

Sweet order hath its draught of bliss 

Graced with the pearl of God's consent, 

Ten times ecstatic in that 'tis 

Considerate and innocent. 

In vain disorder grasps the cup ; 

The pleasure's not enjoyed, but spilt ; 

And, if he stoops to lick it up, 

It only tastes of earth and guilt; 

His sorry raptures rest destroys; 

To live, like comets they must roam ; 

On settled poles turn solid joys, 

And sun-like pleasures shine at home. 

Cove?itry Patmore 



SILENCE 

There is a silence where hath been no sound ; 

There is a silence where no sound may be; 

In the cold grave — under the deep, deep sea, 
Or in wide desert where no life is found, 
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound; 

No voice is hushed — no life treads silently. 

But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free, 
That never spoke, over the idle ground. 
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls 

Of antique palaces, where Man hath been, 
Though the dun fox, or wild hyena, calls, 

And owls, that flit continually between, 
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan, 
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone. 

Thomas Hood 



208 



Tho B a o s m C : 7 m 7 f eU * 3ulg tfje Etoaxtg^ebentfj 



THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US 

The World is too much with us ; late and soon, 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ; 
Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon, 
The winds that will be howling at all hours 
And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers, 
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune ; 

It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather be 
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn, — 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 

William Wordsworth 



THE POET'S WORLD 

On a Poet's lips I slept 

Dreaming like a love-adept 

In the sound his breathing kept ; 

Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, 

But feeds on the aerial kisses 

Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses. 

He will watch from dawn to gloom 

The lake-reflected sun illume 

The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom, 

Nor heed nor see what things they be ; 
But from these create he can 
Forms more real than living man, 

Nurslings of Immortality! 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 



209 



Ms tije ®foet%eigljtf) 



NIGHT 

The sun descending in the west, 
The evening star does shine ; 
The birds are silent in their nest, 
And I must seek for mine. 
The moon, like a flower 
In heaven's high bower, 
With silent delight 
Sits and smiles on the night. 

Farewell, green fields and happy grove, 

Where flocks have ta'en delight ; 
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move 
The feet of angels bright ; 
Unseen, they pour blessing, 
And joy without ceasing, 
On each bud and blossom, 
And each sleeping bosom. 

They look in every thoughtless nest, 

Where birds are cover'd warm, 
They visit caves of every beast, 
To keep them all from harm : — 
If they see any weeping 
That should have been sleeping, 
They pour sleep on their head, 
And sit down by their bed. 

William Blake 



i 



2IO 



3ulg tfje Etomtg^mntfj 



TRUE GREATNESS 

The fairest action of our human life 

Is scorning to revenge an injury : 
For who forgives without a further strife 

His adversary's heart to him doth tie : 
And 'tis a firmer conquest truly said 
To win the heart, than overthrow the head. 

If we a worthy enemy do find, 

To yield to worth, it must be nobly done : — 
But if of baser metal be his mind, 

In base revenge there is no honour won. 
Who would a worthy courage overthrow ? 
And who would wrestle with a worthless foe ? 

We say our hearts are great, and cannot yield ; 

Because they cannot yield, it proves them poor : 
Great hearts are task'd beyond their power but seld : 

The weakest lion will the loudest roar. 
Truth's school for certain does this same allow, 
High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow. 

Lady Elizabeth Carew 



Ms fte BJirtletft SSSTgS.fSi; 7 ;^ 



ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN 
REPUBLIC 

Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee 
And was the safeguard of the West ; the worth 
Of Venice did not fall below her birth, 
Venice, the eldest child of Liberty. 

She was a maiden city, bright and free ; 
No guile seduced, no force could violate ; 
And when she took unto herself a mate, 
She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 

And what if she had seen those glories fade, 
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay, — 
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 

When her long life hath reach'd its final day : 
Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade 
Of that which once was great is pass'd away. 

William Wordsworth 



ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND, 1802 

Two Voices are there ; one is of the Sea, 
One of the Mountains ; each a mighty voice: 
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, 
They were thy chosen music, Liberty! 

There came a tyrant, and with holy glee 
Thou fought'st against him, — but hast vainly striven 
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, 
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 

— Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft ; 
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left — 
For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be 

That Mountain floods should thunder as before, 
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore, 
And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee ! 

William Wordsworth 



Mg tlje ®J)trts=firgt 



ON THE PROSPECT OF PLANTING ARTS 
AND LEARNING IN AMERICA 

The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime 

Barren of every glorious theme, 
In distant lands now waits a better time, 

Producing subjects worthy fame ; 

In happy climes, where from the genial sun 
And virgin earth such scenes ensue, 

The force of art by nature seems outdone, 
And fancied beauties by the true ; 

In happy climes, the seat of innocence, 
Where nature guides and virtue rules, 

Where men shall not impose, for truth and sense, 
The pedantry of courts and schools. 

There shall be sung another golden age, 

The rise of empire and of arts, 
The good and great inspiring epic rage, 

The wisest heads and noblest hearts. 

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay; 

Such as she bred when fresh and young, 
When heavenly flame did animate her clay, 

By future poets shall be sung. 

Westward the course of empire takes its way; 

The four first acts already past, 
A fifth shall close the drama with the day ; 

Time's noblest offspring is the last. 

George Berkeley 



2T 3 



August tfje jFirst 



TOM BOWLING 

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, 

The darling of our crew ; 
No more he'll hear the tempest howling, 

For death has broach'd him to. 
His form was of the manliest beauty, 

His heart was kind and soft ; 
Faithful, below, he did his duty ; 

But now he's gone aloft. 

Tom never from his word departed, 

His virtues were so rare, 
His friends were many and true-hearted, 

His Poll was kind and fair : 
And then he'd sing, so blithe and jolly, 

Ah, many's the time and oft ! 
But mirth is turn'd to melancholy, 

For Tom is gone aloft. 

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, 

When He, who all commands, 
Shall give, to call life's crew together, 

The word to pipe " all hands." 
Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches, 

In vain Tom's life has doff'd : 
For though his body's under hatches, 

His soul has gone aloft. 

Charles Dibdin 



214 



august tfje Sttoxto 



THE LITTLE BLACK BOY 

My mother bore me in the southern wild, 
And I am black; but, oh, my soul is white! 

White as an angel is the English child, 
But I am black, as if bereaved of light. 

My mother taught me underneath a tree; 

And, sitting down before the heat of day, 
She took me on her lap, and kissed me, 

And, pointing to the east, began to say : 

" Look on the rising sun ; there God does live, 
And gives His light, and gives His heat away ; 
And flowers, and trees, and beasts, and men receive 
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday. 

" And we are put on earth a little space, 

That we may learn to bear the beams of love, 
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face 
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. 

" For when our souls have learned the heat to bear, 
The clouds will vanish ; we shall hear His voice, 
Saying : ' Come from the grove, my love and care, 
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.' " 

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me, 
And thus I say to little English boy : 

When I from black, and he from white cloud free, 
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy, 

I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bear 
To lean in joy upon our Father's knee ; 

And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, 
And be like him, and he will then love me. 

William Blake 



215 



August tlje &|)irtr 



NURSE'S SONG 

When the voices of children are heard on the green, 

And laughing is heard on the hill, 
My heart is at rest within my breast, 

And everything else is still. 
Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, 

And the dews of night arise; 
Come, come, leave off play, and let us away 

Till the morning appears in the skies. 

" No, no, let us play, for it is yet day, 
And we cannot go to sleep ; 
Besides in the sky the little birds fly, 

And the hills are all covered with sheep." 
— Well, well, go and play till the light fades away, 

And then go home to bed. 
The little ones leap'd, and shouted, and laugh'd ; 
And all the hills echoed. 

William Blake 



AS THRO' THE LAND 

As thro' the land at eve we went, 

And pluck'd the ripen'd ears, 
We fell out, my wife and I, 
Oh, we fell out I know not why, 

And kiss'd again with tears. 
And blessings on the falling out 

That all the more endears, 
When we fall out with those we love 

And kiss again with tears ! 
For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in other years, 
There above the little grave, 
Oh, there above the little grave, 

We kiss'd again with tears. 

Alfred Tennyson 



216 



Percy & e 7g s 2 helley ' August tije tfourtlj 



MEMORABILIA 

Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, 
And did he stop and speak to you, 

And did you speak to him again? 
How strange it seems, and new ! 

But you were living before that, 

And also you are living after ; 
And the memory I started at — 

My starting moves your laughter ! 

I cross'd a moor, with a name of its own 
And a certain use in the world, no doubt, 

Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone 
'Mid the blank miles round about: 

For there I picked up on the heather 

And there I put inside my breast 
A moulted feather, an eagle-feather ! 

Well, I forget the rest. 

Robert Browning 



THRENOS 

O World ! O Life ! O Time ! 
On whose last steps I climb, 

Trembling at that where I had stood before ; 
When will return the glory of your prime ? 

No more — Oh, never more ! 

Out of the day and night 
A joy has taken flight : 

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar 
Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight 

No more — Oh, never more ! 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 



217 



August rfje JFifflj 



TO MARGUERITE 

Yes ! in the sea of life enisled, 

With echoing straits between us thrown, 

Dotting the shoreless watery wild, 

We mortal millions live alone. 

The islands feel the enclasping flow, 

And then their endless bounds they know. 

But when the moon their hollows lights, 
And they are swept by balms of spring, 
And in their glens, on starry nights, 
The nightingales divinely sing ; 
And lovely notes, from shore to shore, 
Across the sounds and channels pour — 

Oh ! then a longing like despair 

Is to their farthest caverns sent ; 

For surely once, they feel, we were 

Parts of a single continent ! 

Now round us spreads the watery plain — 

Oh might our marges meet again ! 

Who order'd, that their longing's fire 
Should be as soon as kindled, cool'd? 
Who renders vain their deep desire ? 
A God, a God their severance ruled ! 
And bade betwixt their shores to be 
The unplumb'd salt, estranging sea. 

Matthew Arnold 



218 



^SvSftS*, ^gust ttje Stxtfj 



CONSTANCY 

Out upon it. I have loved 

Three whole days together; 
And am like to love three more, 

If it prove fair weather. 

Time shall moult away his wings, 

Ere he shall discover 
In the whole wide world again 

Such a constant lover. 

But the spite on't is, no praise 

Is due at all to me ; 
Love with me had made no stays, 

Had it any been but she. 

Had it any been but she, 

And that very face, 
There had been at least ere this 

A dozen dozen in her place. 

Sir John Suckling 



ON HIMSELF 

A wearied pilgrim I have wander'd here, 
Twice five-and-twenty, bate me but one year ; 
Long I have lasted in this world, 'tis true, 
But yet those years that I have lived, but few. 
Who by his gray hairs doth his lustres tell, 
Lives not those years, but he that lives them well : 
One man has reach'd his sixty years, but he 
Of all those three-score has not lived half three : 
He lives who lives to virtue ; men who cast 
Their ends for pleasure, do not live, but last. 

Robert Herrick 



219 



august tije Spotty 



GRACE FOR A CHILD 

Here, a little child, I stand, 
Heaving up my either hand : 
Cold as paddocks though they be 
Here I lift them up to Thee, 
For a benison to fall 
On our meat, and on us all. Amen. 

Robert Herrick 



A FAREWELL 

My fairest child, I have no song to give you ; 

No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray ; 
Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you 
For every day. 

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever ; 
Do noble things, not dream them, all day long : 
And so make life, death, and that vast forever 
One grand, sweet song. 

Charles Kingsley 



220 



auflust tfje 3Etflfjtfj 



MAY MARGARET 

If you be that May Margaret 

That lived on Kendal Green, 
Then where's that sunny hair of yours 

That crowned you like a queen ? 
That sunny hair is dim, lad, 

They said was like a crown — 
The red gold turned to gray, lad, 

The night a ship went down. 

If you be yet May Margaret, 

May Margaret now as then, 
Then where's that bonny smile of yours 

That broke the hearts of men ? 
The bonny smile is wan, lad, 

That once was glad as day — 
And oh ! 'tis weary smiling 

To keep the tears away. 

If you be yet May Margaret, 

As yet you swear to me, 
Then where's that proud, cold heart of yours 

That sent your love to sea ? 
Ah, me! that heart is broken, 

The proud, cold heart has bled 
For one light word outspoken, 

For all the love unsaid. 

Then Margaret, my Margaret, 

If all you say be true, 
Your hair is yet the sunniest gold, 

Your eyes the sweetest blue. 
And dearer yet and fairer yet 

For all the coming years — 
The fairer for the waiting, 

The dearer for the tears ! 

Thtofihile Marzials 



August tije Nintjj J B n ™ Ze?, 11 



PROUD MAISIE 

Proud Maisie is in the wood, 

Walking so early ; 
Sweet Robin sits on the bush, 

Singing so rarely. 

" Tell me, thou bonny bird, 
When shall I marry me ? " 

— " When six braw gentlemen 
Kirk ward shall carry ye." 

" Who makes the bridal bed, 
Birdie, say truly ? " 

— " The gray-headed sexton 
That delves the grave duly. 

" The glowworm o'er grave and stone 
Shall light thee steady ; 
The owl from the steeple sing, 
' Welcome, proud lady.' " 

Sir Walter Scott 



GANE WERE BUT THE WINTER CAULD 

Gane were but the winter cauld, 

And gane were but the snaw, 
I could sleep in the wild woods, 

Where primroses blaw. 

Cauld's the snaw at my head, 

And cauld at my feet, 
And the finger o' death's at my een, 

Closing them to sleep. 

Let nane tell my father, 

Or my mither sae dear; 
I'll meet them baith in heaven 

At the spring o' the year. 

Allan Cunningham 



August fye ftenti) 



THE INNER VISION 

Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 
To pace the ground, if path be there or none, 
While a fair region round the traveller lies 
Which he forbears again to look upon ; 

Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, 
The work of Fancy, or some happy tone 
Of meditation, slipping in between 
The beauty coming and the beauty gone. 

— If Thought and Love desert us, from that day 
Let us break off all commerce with the Muse : 
With Thought and Love companions of our way — 

Whate'er the senses take or may refuse, — 
The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews 
Of inspiration on the humblest lay. 

William Wordsworth 



ADMONITION TO A TRAVELLER 

Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye ! 

— The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook 
Hath stirr'd thee deeply ; with its own dear brook, 
Its own small pasture, almost its own sky! 

But covet not the abode ; forbear to sigh 
As many do, repining while they look ; 
Intruders — who would tear from Nature's book 
This precious leaf with harsh impiety. 

— Think what the home must be if it were thine, 

Even thine, though few thy wants ! — Roof, window, door, 
The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, 

The roses to the porch which they entwine : 
Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day 
On which it should be touch 'd, would melt away ! 

William Wordsworth, 
223 



august tlje IBlebentfj 



THE STRIFE 

The wish that of the living whole 
No life may fail beyond the grave, 
Derives it not from what we have 

The likest God within the soul ? 

Are God and Nature then at strife, 
That Nature lends such evil dreams? 
So careful of the type she seems, 

So careless of the single life, 

That I, considering everywhere 
Her secret meaning in her deeds, 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

She often brings but one to bear — 

I falter where I firmly trod ; 

And, falling with my weight of cares 
Upon the great world's altar-stairs, 

That slope through darkness up to God, 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, 
And gather dust and chaff, and call 
To what I feel is Lord of all, 

And faintly trust the larger hope. 

Alfred Tennyson 



A VISION 

I saw Eternity the other night, 

Like a great ring of pure and endless light, 

All calm, as it was bright : — 
And round beneath it, Time, in hours, days, years, 

Driven by the spheres, 
Like a vast shadow moved ; in which the World 

And all her train were hurl'd. 

Henry Vaughan 



224 



^Alfred, Lord Tennyson 
i 809- i 892 



UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE 

(Sept. 3, 1802) 

Earth has not anything to show more fair: 
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
A sight so touching in its majesty : 
This City now doth like a garment wear 

The beauty of the morning : silent, bare, 
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 
Open unto the fields, and to the sky, — 
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 

Never did sun more beautifully steep 

In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill; 

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 

The river glideth at his own sweet will: 
Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 
And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 

William Wordsworth 

BY THE SEA 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free ; 
The holy time is quiet as a Nun 
Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 
Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; 

The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea: 
Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, 
And doth with his eternal motion make 
A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear child! dear girl ! that walkest with me here, 
If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought 
Thy nature is not therefore less divine : 

Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year, 
And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 
God being with thee when we know it not. 

William Wordsworth 
225 



August fije ftftirteentij Philip f ?n%o arston ' 



AUSPEX 

My heart, I cannot still it, 
Nest that had song-birds in it; 
And when the last shall go, 
The dreary days to fill it, 
Instead of lark or linnet, 
Shall whirl dead leaves and snow. 

Had they been swallows only, 
Without the passion stronger 
That skyward longs and sings, — 
Woe's me, I shall be lonely 
When I can feel no longer 
The impatience of their wings ! 

A moment, sweet delusion, 
Like birds the brown leaves hover ; 
But it will not be long 
Before their wild confusion 
Fall wavering down to cover 
The poet and his song. 

James Russell Lowell 



MEMORY 

My mind lets go a thousand things, 
Like dates of wars and deaths of kings, 
And yet recalls the very hour — 
'T was noon by yonder village tower, 
And on the last blue noon in May — 
The wind came briskly up this way, 
Crisping the brook beside the road ; 
Then, pausing here, set down its load 
Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly 
Two petals from that wild-rose tree. 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich 



226 



August tfje jFourteenti) 



TIME AND LOVE 



When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced 
The rich proud cost of out-worn buried age ; 
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed, 
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage ; 

When I have seen the hungry ocean gain 
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, 
And the firm soil win of the watery main, 
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store; 

When I have seen such interchange of state, 
Or state itself confounded to decay, 
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate — 
That Time will come and take my Love away : 

— This thought is as a death, which cannot choose 
But weep to have that which it fears to lose. 



Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, 
But sad mortality o'ersways their power, 
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, 
Whose action is no stronger than a flower ? 

O how shall summer's honey breath hold out 
Against the wreckful siege of battering days, 
When rocks impregnable are not so stout 
Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays ? 

O fearful meditation ! where, alack ! 
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? 
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back, 
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid ? 

O ! none, unless this miracle have might, 

That in black ink my love may still shine bright. 

Willia?n Shakespeare 
227 



&UflUSt flj* jFtftemtt) Sir Walter Scott, 



Born 1771 



ROBIN REDBREAST 

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer ! 

For Summer's nearly done ; 
The garden smiling faintly, 

Cool breezes in the sun ; 
Our thrushes now are silent, 

Our swallows flown away, — 
But Robin's here in coat of brown, 

And scarlet breast-knot gay. 
Robin, robin redbreast, 

O Robin dear ! 
Robin sings so sweetly 

In the falling of the year. 

Bright yellow, red, and orange, 

The leaves come down in hosts ; 
The trees are Indian princes, 

But soon they'll turn to ghosts ; 
The leathery pears and apples 

Hang russet on the bough ; 
It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, 

'Twill soon be Winter now. 
Robin, robin redbreast, 

O Robin dear ! 
And what will this poor robin do? 

For pinching days are near. 

The fireside for the cricket, 

The wheat-stack for the mouse, 
When trembling night-winds whistle 

And moan all round the house. 
The frosty ways like iron, 

The branches plumed with snow, — 
Alas ! in Winter dead and dark, 

Where can poor Robin go ? 
Robin, robin redbreast, 

O Robin dear ! 
And a crumb of bread for Robin, 

His little heart to cheer. 

William Allingham 



228 



August tlje Sixteenth 



LOVE 

Love bade me welcome ; yet my soul drew back-, 

Guilty of dust and sin. 
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack 

From my first entrance in, 
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning 

If I lacked anything. 

" A guest," I answered, " worthy to be here : " 

Love said, " You shall be he." 
" I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear! 

I cannot look on Thee." 
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply, 

" Who made the eyes but I ? " 

" Truth, Lord; but I have marred them; let my shame 

Go where it doth deserve." 
" And know you not," says Love, " who bore the blame ? " 

" My dear, then I will serve." 
" You must sit down," says Love, " and taste my meat." 

So I did sit and eat. 

George Herbert 



229 



August tije Sefonteentij 



LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT 

Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, 

Lead Thou me on ! 
The night is dark, and I am far from home, — 

Lead Thou me on ! 
Keep Thou my feet ; I do not ask to see 
The distant scene, — one step enough for me. 

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou 

Shouldst lead me on : 
I loved to choose and see my path, but now 

Lead Thou me on ! 
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, 
Pride ruled my will : remember not past years. 

So long Thy power hath bless'd me, sure it still 

Will lead me on ; 
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till 

The night is gone ; 
And with the morn those angel faces smile 
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. 

John Henry Newman 



230 



Thomas Wmiam Parsons, &UgUgt tf)0 1£tgt)teetttij 



SUNDAY 

O Day most calm, most bright, 

The fruit of this, the next world's bud, 

The indorsement of supreme delight, 

Writ by a Friend, and with His blood ; 

The couch of Time, Care's balm and bay ; 

The week were dark but for thy light ; 
Thy torch doth show the way. 

Sundays the pillars are, 
On which Heaven's Palace arched lies: 
The other days fill up the spare 
And hollow room with vanities: 
They are the fruitful beds and borders 
In God's rich garden : that is bare 

Which parts their ranks and orders. 

The Sundays of man's life, 
Threaded together on Time's string, 
Make bracelets to adorn the Wife 
Of the eternal glorious King : 
On Sunday Heaven's gate stands ope ; 
Blessings are plentiful and rife, 

More plentiful than hope. 

Thou art a day of mirth ; 
And where the week-days trail on ground, 
Thy flight is higher, as thy birth : 
O let me take thee at the bound, 
Leaping with thee from seven to seven, 
Till that we both, being toss'd from Earth, 

Fly hand in hand to Heaven ! 

George Herbert 



231 



August tfje Ninetenttfj 



ON HIS OWN BLINDNESS 

TO CYRIACK SKINNER 

Cyriack, this three years' day, these eyes, though clear, 

To outward view, of blemish or of spot, 

Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot ; 
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear 
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, 

Or man or woman. Yet I argue not 

Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot 
Of heart or hope ; but still bear up and steer 
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask ? 

The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied 
In Liberty's defence, my noble task, 

Of which all Europe rings from side to side. 
This thought might lead me through the world's vain 
mask, 

Content, though blind, had I no better guide. 

John Milton 



TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL 

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud 
Not of war only, but detractions rude, 
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, 
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed, 
And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud 

Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pursued, 
While Darwen stream with blood of Scots imbrued, 
And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, 
And Worcester's laureate wreath : yet much remains 
To conquer still ; Peace hath her victories 
No less renowned than War. New foes arise, 
Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains : 
Help us to save free conscience from the paw 
Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw. 

John Milton 



232 



August tfje Etoentietfj 



THE BETTER PART 

Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man, 
How angrily thou spurn'st all simpler fare ! 
" Christ," some one says, " was human as we are ; 
No judge eyes us from Heaven, our sin to scan ; 

" We live no more, when we have done our span." — 
" Well, then, for Christ," thou answerest, " who can 
care? 

From sin, which Heaven records not, why forbear ? 

Live we like brutes our life without a plan ! " 

So answerest thou ; but why not rather say : 
" Hath man no second life ? — Pitch this one high / 
Sits there no judge in Heaven, our sin to see? — 

" More strictly, then, the inward judge obey / 
Was Christ a man like us ? Ah / let us try 
If we then, too, can be such men as he / " 

Matthew Arnold 



IMMORTALITY 

Foil'd by our fellow men, depress'd, outworn, 
We leave the brutal world to take its way, 
And, Patience ! in another life, we say, 
The world shall be thrust down, and we up-borne. 

And will not, then, the immortal armies scorn 
The world's poor, routed leavings ? or will they, 
Who fail'd under the heat of this life's day, 
Support the fervours of the heavenly morn ? 

No, no ! the energy of life may be 
Kept on after the grave, but not begun ; 
And he who flagg'd not in the earthly strife, 
From strength to strength advancing — only he, 
His soul well-knit, and all his battles won, 
Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life. 

Matthew Arnold 
233 



August tfje ®tontt2=fir£t 



ROCK OF AGES 

Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 
Let me hide myself in Thee ! 
Let the water and the blood, 
From Thy riven side which flowed, 
Be of sin the double cure — 
Cleanse me from its guilt and power. 

Not the labours of my hands 
Can fulfil Thy law's demands ; 
Could my zeal no respite know, 
Could my tears for ever flow, 
All for sin could not atone — 
Thou must save, and Thou alone. 

Nothing in my hand I bring — 
Simply to Thy cross I cling ; 
Naked come to Thee for dress — 
Helpless look to Thee for grace ; 
Foul, I to the Fountain fly — 
Wash me, Saviour, or I die ! 

While I draw this fleeting breath, 
When my eye-strings break in death, 
When I soar to worlds unknown, 
See Thee on Thy judgment throne, 
Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 
Let me hide myself in Thee ! 

Augustus Montague Top lady 



234 



August tfje Etoentg-secontr 



ON HIS DECEASED WIFE 

Methought I saw my late espoused saint 
Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave, 
Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave, 

Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint. 

Mine, as whom washed from spot of child-bed taint 
Purification in the Old Law did save, 
And such as yet once more I trust to have 

Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint, 

Came vested all in white, pure as her mind. 
Her face was veiled, yet to my fancied sight 

Love, sweetness, goodness in her person shined 
So clear as in no face with more delight. 

But oh ! as to embrace me she inclined, 

I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night. 

John Milton 



MORNING 

The lark now leaves his watery nest, 
And climbing shakes his dewy wings, 

He takes your window for the east, 
And to implore your light, he sings; 

Awake, awake, the morn will never rise, 

Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes. 

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, 

The ploughman from the sun his season takes ; 

But still the lover wonders what they are, 
Who look for day before his mistress wakes ; 

Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn ! 

Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn. 

Sir William Davenant 



235 



August tije SDtofentg^tijtrXi 



THE SIRENS' SONG 

Steer hither, steer your winged pines, 

All beaten mariners : 
Here lie love's undiscovered mines, 

A prey to passengers ; 
Perfumes far sweeter than the best 
That make the phoenix' urn and nest : 

Fear not your ships, 
Nor any to oppose you save our lips ; 

But come on shore, 
Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more. 

For swelling waves our panting breasts, 

Where never storms arise, 
Exchange ; and be awhile our guests : 

For stars, gaze on our eyes. 
The compass Love shall hourly sing ; 
And, as he goes about the ring, 

We will not miss 
To tell each point he nameth with a kiss : 

Then come on shore, 
Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more. 

William Browne 



236 



August tlje 2Ctoent2=fourti} 



A SERENADE 

Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh, 

The sun has left the lea, 
The orange-flower perfumes the bower, 

The breeze is on the sea. 
The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day, 

Sits hush'd his partner nigh ; 
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, 

But where is County Guy? 

The village maid steals through the shade 

Her shepherd's suit to hear ; 
To Beauty shy, by lattice high, 

Sings high-born Cavalier. 
The star of Love, all stars above, 

Now reigns o'er earth and sky, 
And high and low the influence know — 

But where is County Guy ? 

Sir Walter Scott 



EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE 

Underneath this sable hearse 
Lies the subject of all verse, 
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother ; 
Death ! ere thou hast slain another, 
Learn'd and fair and good as she, 
Time shall throw a dart at thee. 

Ben Jonson 



237 



August tfje Efoottg^fiftlj 



Bret Harte, Born 1839 



TO LUCASTA, GOING BEYOND THE SEAS 

If to be absent were to be 
Away from thee ; 
Or that when I am gone 
You or I were alone ; 
Then, my Lucasta, might I crave 
Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave. 

But I'll not sigh one blast or gale 
To swell my sail, 
Or pay a tear to 'suage 
The foaming blue-god's rage; 
For whether he will let me pass 
Or no, I'm still as happy as I was. 

Though seas and land betwixt us both, 
Our faith and troth, 
Like separated souls, 
All time and space controls : 
Above the highest sphere we meet 
Unseen, unknown, and greet as Angels greet. 

So then we do anticipate 
Our after-fate, 
And are alive i' the skies, 
If thus our lips and eyes 
Can speak like spirits unconfined 
In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind. 

Richard Lovelace 



238 



August tije &foent2=sixtfj 



THE SOLDIER GOING TO THE FIELD 

Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl, 
To purify the air ; 

Thy tears to thread, instead of pearl, 
On bracelets of thy hair. 

The trumpet makes the echo hoarse 
And wakes the louder drum ; 
Expense of grief gains no remorse, 
When sorrow should be dumb : 

For I must go, where lazy peace 
Will hide her drowsy head ; 
And, for the sport of kings, increase 
The number of the dead. 

But first I'll chide thy cruel theft; 
Can I in war delight, 
Who, being of my heart bereft, 
Can have no heart to fight ? 

Thou know'st the sacred laws of old 
Ordained a thief should pay, 
To quit him of his theft, sevenfold 
What he had stol'n away. 

Thy payment shall but double be ; 
Oh then with speed resign 
My own seduced heart to me, 
Accompanied with thine. 

Sir William Davenant 



239 



August tfje Efoentgtfebenflj Ja ^ e T d h ? 7 T n ' 



TO THE ROSE: A SONG 

Go, happy Rose, and, interwove 
With other flowers, bind my love. 
Tell her, too, she must not be 
Longer flowing, longer free, 
That so oft has fetter'd me. 

Say, if she's fretful, I have bands 
Of pearl and gold to bind her hands ; 
Tell her, if she struggle still, 
I have myrtle rods (at will) 
For to tame, though not to kill. 

Take thou my blessing thus, and go 
And tell her this, — but do not so ! — 
Lest a handsome anger fly 
Like a lightning from her eye, 
And burn thee up, as well as I ! 

Robert Herrick 



SONG 

Lay a garland on my hearse 
Of the dismal yew ; 
Maidens, willow branches bear; 
Say, I died true. 

My love was false, but I was firm 
From my hour of birth. 
Upon my buried body lie 
Lightly, gentle earth ! 

Beaumont and Fletcher 



240 



l&$Zgffi3S?™ August tjje Etomts^igJjt}) 



WE HAVE SEEN THEE, O LOVE! 

We have seen thee, O Love, thou art fair ; thou art goodly, 

O Love; 
Thy wings make light in the air as the wings of a dove. 
Thy feet are as winds that divide the stream of the sea ; 
Earth is thy covering to hide thee, the garment of thee. 
Thou art swift and subtle and blind as a flame of fire ; 
Before thee the laughter, behind thee the tears of desire ; 
And twain go forth beside thee, a man with a maid; 
Her eyes are the eyes of a bride whom delight makes 

afraid ; 
As the breath in the buds that stir is her bridal breath : 
But Fate is the name of her ; and his name is Death. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 



INSIGHT 

Momentous to himself as I to me 

Hath each man been that ever woman bore ; 
Once, in a lightning-flash of sympathy, 

I felt this truth, an instant, and no more. 

William Watson 



241 



aUgUSt ttje Etoentg^nintf) Oliver Wendell Holmes, 



Born 1809 



THE MEN OF GOTHAM 

Seamen three ! What men be ye ? 

Gotham's three wise men we be. 

Whither in your bowl so free ? 

To rake the moon from out the sea. 

The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. 

And our ballast is old wine — 

And your ballast is old wine. 

Who art thou, so fast adrift ? 
I am he they call Old Care. 
Here on board we will thee lift 
No : I may not enter there. 
Wherefore so ? 'Tis Jove's decree, 
In a bowl Care may not be — 
In a bowl Care may not be. 

Fear ye not the waves that roll ? 

No : in charmed bowl we swim. 

What the charm that floats the bowl? 

Water may not pass the brim. 

The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. 

And our ballast is old wine — 

And your ballast is old wine. 

Thomas Love Peacock 



242 



August tfje Eljirtietf) 



TO-MORROW 

In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining, 

May my fate no less fortunate be 
Than a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining, 

And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea ; 
With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn, 

While I carol away idle sorrow, 
And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn 

Look forward with hope for To-morrow. 

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too, 

As the sunshine or rain may prevail ; 
And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too, 

With a barn for the use of the flail : 
A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game, 

And a purse when a friend wants to borrow ; 
I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame, 

Or what honours may wait him To-morrow. 

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely 

Secured by a neighbouring hill ; 
And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly 

By the sound of a murmuring rill : 
And while peace and plenty I find at my board, 

With a heart free from sickness and sorrow, 
With my friends may I share what To-day may afford, 

And let them spread the table To-morrow. 

And when I at last must throw off this frail cov'ring 

Which I've worn for three-score years and ten, 
On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hov'ring, 

Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again : 
But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey, 

And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow ; 
As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare To-day, 

May become Everlasting To-morrow. 

John Collins 



243 



august tije &ljii%firgt 



I WISH I WERE BY THAT DIM LAKE 

I wish I were by that dim Lake, 
Where sinful souls their farewell take 
Of this vain world, and half-way lie 
In death's cold shadow, ere they die. 
There, there, far from thee, 
Deceitful world, my home should be ; 
Where, come what might of gloom and pain, 
False hope should ne'er deceive again. 

The lifeless sky, the mournful sound 

Of unseen waters falling round ; 

The dry leaves quiv'ring o'er my head, 

Like man, unquiet ev'n when dead ! 

These, ay, these shall wean 

My soul from life's deluding scene, 

And turn each thought, o'ercharged with gloom, 

Like willows, downward tow'rds the tomb. 

As they, who to their couch at night 
Would win repose, first quench the light, 
So must the hopes, that keep this breast 
Awake, be quench'd, ere it can rest. 
Cold, cold, this heart must grow, 
Unmoved by either joy or woe, 
Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown 
Within their current turns to stone. 

Thomas Moore 



244 



September tlje Jtrst 



LULLABY 

Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, 
Smiles awake you when you rise. 
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, 
And I will sing a lullaby. 
Rock them, rock a lullaby. 

Care is heavy, therefore sleep you, 
You are care, and care must keep you. 
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, 
And I will sing a lullaby. 
Rock them, rock a lullaby. 

Tho?nas Dekker 



HAVE YOU A DESIRE? 

Have you a desire to see 

The glorious Heaven's epitome ? 

Or an abstract of the Spring ? 

Adonis' garden ? or a Thing 

Fuller of wonder? Nature's shop displayed, 
Hung with the choicest pieces she has made? — 
Here behold it open laid. 

Or else would you bless your eyes 
With a type of Paradise ? 
Or behold how poets feign 
Jove to sit amidst his train? 

Or see (what made Actaeon rue) 

Diana 'mongst her virgin crew? — 

Lift up your eyes and view. 

Peter Hausted 



245 



Sqjtem&n: tfje Secontr 



TO NIGHT 

Swiftly walk over the western wave, 

Spirit of Night! 
Out of the misty eastern cave, 
Where all the long and lone daylight, 
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, 
Which make thee terrible and dear, — 

Swift be thy flight ! 

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day 
Kiss her until she be wearied out, 
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, 
Touching all with thine opiate wand — 

Come, long sought ! 

When I arose and saw the dawn, 

I sighed for thee ; 
When light rode high, and the dew was gone, 
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, 
And the weary Day turned to his rest, 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 

I sighed for thee. 

Thy brother Death came, and cried, 

" Wouldst thou me ? " 
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 
Murmured like a noon-tide bee, 
" Shall I nestle near thy side? 
Wouldst thou me?" — And I replied, 
" No, not thee ! " 

Death will come when thou art dead, 

Soon, too soon — 
Sleep will come when thou art fled ; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved Night — 
Swift be thine approaching flight, 
Come soon, soon ! 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 
246 



E K e x F 8so d ' September tije Etjirfc 



DREAM -PEDLARY 

If there were dreams to sell, 

What would you buy ? 
Some cost a passing bell ; 

Some a light sigh, 
That shakes from Life's fresh crown 
Only a rose-leaf down. 
If there were dreams to seh\ 
Merry and sad to tell, 
And the crier rang the bell, 

What would you buy ? 

A cottage lone and still, 

With bowers nigh, 
Shadowy, my woes to still, 

Until I die. 
Such pearl from Life's fresh crown 
Fain would I shake me down. 
Were dreams to have at will, 
This would best heal my ill, 

This would I buy. 

Thomas Lovell Beddoes 



247 



September tfje jfourtfj 



LOVE LETTERS 

My letters ! all dead paper, mute and white ! 

And yet they seem alive and quivering 

Against my tremulous hands which loose the string 
And let them drop down on my knee to-night. 
This said, — he wished to have me in his sight 

Once, as a friend : this fixed a day in spring 

To come and touch my hand ... a simple thing, 
Yet I wept for it ! — this . . . the paper's light . . . 
Said, Dear, I love thee j and I sank and quailed 

As if God's future thundered on my past. 
This said, I am thine — and so its ink has paled 

With lying at my heart that beat too fast. 
And this . . . O Love, thy words have ill availed 

If, what this said, I dared repeat at last ! 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning 



THE SONNET 

Scorn not the sonnet ; critic, you have frowned, 
Mindless of its just honours ; with this key 
Shakespeare unlocked his heart ; the melody 

Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; 

A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; 
With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief ; 
The sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf 

Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned 

His visionary brow ; a glow-worm lamp, 

It cheered mild Spenser, called from fairy-land 

To struggle through dark ways ; and when a damp 
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 

The thing became a trumpet ; whence he blew 

Soul-animating strains, — alas ! too few. 

William Wordsworth 



248 



September tfje jFtftij 



THE FLIGHT OF LOVE 

When the lamp is shatter'd 
The light in the dust lies dead — 
When the cloud is scatter'd, 
The rainbow's glory is shed. 
When the lute is broken, 
Sweet tones are remember'd not; 
When the lips have spoken, 
Loved accents are soon forgot. 

As music and splendour 

Survive not the lamp and the lute, 

The heart's echoes render 

No song when the spirit is mute — 

No song but sad dirges, 

Like the wind through a ruin'd cell, 

Or the mournful surges 

That ring the dead seaman's knell. 

When hearts have once mingled, 

Love first leaves the well-built nest ; 

The weak one is singled 

To endure what it once possesst. 

O Love ! who bewailest 

The frailty of all things here, 

Why choose you the frailest 

For your cradle, your home, and your bier ? 

Its passions will rock thee 

As the storms rock the ravens on high ; 

Bright reason will mock thee 

Like the sun from a wintry sky. 

From thy nest every rafter 

Will rot, and thine eagle home 

Leave thee naked to laughter, 

When leaves fall and cold winds come. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 



249 



September tfje <Sixtfj 



SONG 

How many times do I love thee, dear ? 
Tell me how many thoughts there be 
In the atmosphere 
Of a new-fall'n year 
Whose white and sable hours appear 

The latest flake of Eternity : 
So many times do I love thee, dear. 

How many times do I love again ? 
Tell me how many beads there are 
In a silver chain 
Of evening rain, 
Unravell'd from the tumbling main, 

And threading the eye of a yellow star : 
So many times do I love again. 

Thomas Lovell Beddoes 



THAT HOLY THING 

They all were looking for a king 

To slay their foes and lift them high : 

Thou cam'st, a little baby thing 
That made a woman cry. 

O Son of Man, to right my lot 

Naught but Thy presence can avail ; 

Yet on the road Thy wheels are not, 
Nor on the sea Thy sail ! 

My how or when Thou wilt not heed, 
But come down Thine own secret stair, 

That Thou mayst answer all my need — 
Yea, every bygone prayer. 

George MacDonald 



250 



JohnGreenkafWhittier, £^1^ fyt Stfatlfy 



AT BETHLEHEM 

Come, we shepherds, whose blest sight 
Hath met Love's noon in Nature's night; 
Come, lift we up our loftier song, 
And wake the Sun that lies too long. 

Gloomy night embraced the place 

Where the noble Infant lay: 
The Babe look'd up, and show'd His face; 

In spite of darkness, it was day : — 
It was Thy day, Sweet ! and did rise 
Not from the East, but from Thine eyes. 

We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest, 

Young dawn of our eternal Day ; 
We saw Thine eyes break from their East, 

And chase the trembling shades away: 
We saw Thee (and we blest the sight), 
We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light. 

Welcome, all wonders in one sight ! 

Eternity shut in a span ! 
Summer in Winter ! Day in Night ! 

Heaven in Earth ! and God in man ! 
Great Little One, Whose all-embracing birth, 
Lifts Earth to Heaven, stoops Heaven to Earth. 

Richard Crashaw 



251 



September tije 3£igljtij 



Died 1644 



THE ASPIRATION 

How long, great God, how long must I 

Immured in this dark prison lie ; 
Where at the grates and avenues of sense, 
My soul must watch to have intelligence ; 
Where but faint gleams of Thee salute my sight, 
Like doubtful moonshine in a cloudy night : 

When shall I leave this magic sphere, 

And be all mind, all eye, all ear ? 

How cold this clime ! And yet my sense 

Perceives e'en here Thy influence. 
E'en here Thy strong magnetic charms I feel, 
And pant and tremble like the amorous steel. 
To lower good, and beauties less divine, 
Sometimes my erroneous needle does decline, 

But yet, so strong the sympathy, 

It turns, and points again to Thee. 

I long to see this excellence 

Which at such distance strikes my sense. 
My impatient soul struggles to disengage 
Her wings from the confinement of her cage. 
Wouldst thou, great Love, this prisoner once set free, 
How would she hasten to be link'd to Thee ! 

She'd for no angels' conduct stay, 

But fly, and love-on, all the way. 

John Norris 



252 



Thomas Campbell 
1777-1844 



September tfje Ntntij 



THE RIVER OF LIFE 

The more we live, more brief appear 

Our life's succeeding stages : 
A day to childhood seems a year, 

And years like passing ages. 

The gladsome current of our youth, 

Ere passion yet disorders, 
Steals lingering like a river smooth 

Along its grassy borders. 

But as the careworn cheek grows wan, 

And sorrow's shafts fly thicker, 
Ye Stars, that measure life to man, 

Why seem your courses quicker ? 

When joys have lost their bloom and breath 

And life itself is vapid, 
Why, as we reach the Falls of Death, 

Feel we its tide more rapid ? 

It may be strange — yet who would change 
Time's course to slower speeding, 

When one by one our friends have gone 
And left our bosoms bleeding ? 

Heaven gives our years of fading strength 

Indemnifying fleetness ; 
And those of youth, a seeming length, 

Proportion'd to their sweetness. 

Thomas Campbell 



253 



Septem&er tfje Enxtlj 



SIN 

Lord, with what care hast Thou begirt us round ! 
Parents first season us ; then schoolmasters 
Deliver us to laws ; they send us bound 

To rules of reason, holy messengers, 

Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin, 
Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes, 
Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in, 

Bibles laid open, millions of surprises, 

Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness, 
The sound of glory ringing in our ears ; 
Without, our shame ; within, our consciences : 

Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears : — 

Yet all these fences and their whole array 
One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away. 

George Herbert 



RENOUNCEMENT 

I must not think of thee ; and, tired yet strong, 
I shun the thought that lurks in all delight — 
The thought of thee — and in the blue Heaven's height, 

And in the sweetest passage of a song. 

Oh, just beyond the fairest thoughts that throng 

This breast, the thought of thee waits, hidden yet bright ; 
But it must never, never come in sight ; 

I must stop short of thee the whole day long. 

But when sleep comes to close each difficult day, 
When night gives pause to the long watch I keep, 
And all my bonds I needs must loose apart, 

Must doff my will as raiment laid away, — 

With the first dream that comes with the first sleep 
I run, I run, I am gathered to thy heart. 

Alice Meynell 



254 



September ttje lElebenti) 



THE TIGER 

Tiger, Tiger, burning bright, 
In the forests of the night, 
What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burned the fire of thine eyes ? 
On what wings dare he aspire ? 
What the hand dare seize the fire ? 

And what shoulder, and what art, 
Could twist the sinews of thy heart ? 
And when thy heart began to beat, 
What dread hand formed thy dread feet ? 

What the hammer? what the chain? 
In what furnace was thy brain ? 
What the anvil ? What dread grasp 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? 

When the stars threw down their spears, 
And watered heaven with their tears, 
Did He smile His work to see ? 
Did He who made the lamb make thee ? 

Tiger, Tiger, burning bright, 
In the forests of the night, 
What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry ? 

William Blake 



255 



September ttje Etoelftij 



TO A WATERFOWL 

Whither, midst falling dew, 
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 

Thy solitary way ? 

Vainly the fowler's eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 

On the chafed ocean side ? 

There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, — 
The desert and illimitable air, — 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fanned, 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 

Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end; 
Soon sh alt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend, 

Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 

And shall not soon depart : 

He who, from zone to zone, 
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
In the long way that I must tread alone, 
Will lead my steps aright. 

William Culle?i Bryant 
256 



September ttje ftfjtrteentfj 



THE VALLEY OF UNREST 

Once it smiled a silent dell 

Where the people did not dwell ; 

They had gone unto the wars, 

Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, 

Nightly, from their azure towers, 

To keep watch above the flowers, 

In the midst of which all day 

The red sunlight lazily lay. 

Now each visitor shall confess 

The sad valley's restlessness. 

Nothing there is motionless, 

Nothing save the airs that brood 

Over the magic solitude. 

Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees 

That palpitate like the chill seas 

Around the misty Hebrides ! 

Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven 

That rustle through the unquiet Heaven 

Uneasily, from morn to even, 

Over the violets there that lie 

In myriad types of the human eye, 

Over the lilies there that wave 

And weep above a nameless grave ! 

They wave : — from out their fragrant tops 

Eternal dews come down in drops. 

They weep : — from off their delicate stems 

Perennial tears descend in gems. 

Edgar Allan Poe 



257 



September tije Jourteentf) 



SEVEN TIMES ONE 

There's no dew left on the daisies and clover, 

There's no rain left in heaven. 
I've said my " seven times " over and over, — 

Seven times one are seven. 

I am old, — so old I can write a letter ; 

My birthday lessons are done. 
The lambs play always, — they know no better; 

They are only one times one. 

Moon ! in the night I have seen you sailing 
And shining so round and low. 

You were bright — ah, bright — but your light 
is failing ; 
You are nothing now but a bow. 

You Moon ! have you done something wrong 
in heaven, 
That God has hidden your face ? 

1 hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven, 
And shine again in your place. 

O velvet Bee ! you're a dusty fellow, — 
You've powdered your legs with gold. 

O brave marsh Mary-buds, rich and yellow, 
Give me your money to hold ! 

O Columbine ! open your folded wrapper, 
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! 

Cuckoo-pint ! toll me the purple clapper 
That hangs in your clear green bell ! 

And show me your nest, with the young ones 
in it, — 
I will not steal them away : 

1 am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet ! 

I am seven times one to-day. 

Jean Ingeloiv 



258 



September tije Jtfteentij 



THE HUMAN SEASONS 

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year; 
There are four seasons in the mind of man : 
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear 
Takes in all beauty with an easy span : 

He has his Summer, when luxuriously 
Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves 
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high 
Is nearest unto heaven : quiet coves 

His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings 
He furleth close ; contented so to look 
On mists in idleness — to let fair things 
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. 

He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, 
Or else he would forego his mortal nature. 

John Keats 



SOUL AND BODY 

Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth, 
[Foil'd by] those rebel powers that thee array, 
Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth, 
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay ? 

Why so large cost, having so short a lease, 
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend ? 
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, 
Eat up thy charge ? is this thy body's end ? 

Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, 
And let that pine to aggravate thy store ; 
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross ; 
Within be fed, without be rich no more : — 

So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men, 
And Death once dead, there's no more dying then. 

William Shakespeare 
259 



.September tfje Sixteenth 



THE GOOD GREAT MAN 

How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits 

Honour and wealth, with all his worth and pains ! 
It seems a story from the world of spirits 
When any man obtains that which he merits, 
Or any merits that which he obtains. 

For shame, my friend ! renounce this idle strain! 
What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain? 
Wealth, title, dignity, a golden chain, 
Or heap of corses which his sword hath slain? 
Goodness and greatness are not means, but ends. 

Hath he not always treasures, always friends, 

The great good man? Three treasures, — love, and light, 

And calm thoughts equable as infant's breath ; 
And three fast friends, more sure than day or night, — 

Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death. 

Samziel Taylor Coleridge 



FREDERICKSBURG 

The increasing moonlight drifts across my bed, 
And on the churchyard by the road, I know 
It falls as white and noiselessly as snow. 

'Twas such a night two weary summers fled ; 

The stars, as now, were waning overhead. 
Listen ! Again the shrill-lipped bugles blow 
Where the swift currents of the river flow 

Past Fredericksburg ; far off the heavens are red 

With sudden conflagration : on yon height, 

Linstock in hand, the gunners hold their breath ; 

A signal-rocket pierces the dense night, 

Flings its spent stars upon the town beneath ; 

Hark ! — the artillery massing on the right, 

Hark ! — the black squadrons wheeling down to Death ! 
Thomas Bailey Aldrich 



260 



Walter Dfed?864 andor ' September tf)e Seventeenth 



AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY, A CHILD 
OF QUEEN ELIZABETH'S CHAPEL 

Weep with me, all you that read 

This little story ; 
And know, for whom a tear you shed 

Death's self is sorry. 
It was a child that so did thrive 

In grace and feature, 
As Heaven and Nature seemed to strive 

Which owned the creature. 
Years he numbered scarce thirteen 

When fates turned cruel, 
Yet three filled zodiacs had he been 

The stage's jewel ; 
And did act (what now we moan) 

Old men so duly, 
Ah, sooth, the Parcae thought him one — 

He played so truly. 
So by error to his fate 

They all consented, 
But viewing him since, alas too late, 

They have repented ; 
And have sought, to give new birth, 

In baths to steep him ; 
But being so much too good for earth, 

Heaven vows to keep him. 

Ben Jonson 



261 



September tlje Eigijteentlj 



HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER 

Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun, 

Which was my sin, though it were done before ? 

Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run, 
And do run still, though still I do deplore? 

When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done ; 
For I have more. 

Wilt Thou forgive that sin, which I have won 
Others to sin, and made my sins their door? 

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun 
A year or two and wallowed in a score ? 

When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done ; 
For I have more. 

I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun 

My last thread, I shall perish on the shore ; 
But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy Son 
Shall shine as He shines now and heretofore : 
And having done that, Thou hast done ; 
I fear no more. 

John Donne 



262 



Hart Kt£ dge ' September tlje Nineteenth 



SLEEP, SILENCE' CHILD 

Sleep, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest, 
Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings, 
Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings, 
Sole comforter of minds with grief oppressed ; 
Lo, by thy charming rod all breathing things 
Lie slumb'ring, with forgetfulness possessed, 
And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings 
Thou sparest, alas ! who cannot be thy guest. 
Since I am thine, O come, but with that face 
To inward light which thou art wont to show; 
With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe ; 
Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace, 

Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath : 
I long to kiss the image of my death. 

William Drummond 



MY GARDEN 

A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot ! 
Rose plot, 

Fringed pool, 
Fern'd grot — 

The veriest school 

Of peace ; and yet the fool 
Contends that God is not — 
Not God ! in gardens ! when the eve is cool ? 

Nay, but I have a sign ; 

'Tis very sure God walks in mine. 

Thomas Edward Brown 



263 



September tije Etoenttetij 



RUSTIC JOYS 

Jack and Joan, they think no ill, 

But loving live, and merry still ; 

Do their week-day's work, and pray 

Devoutly on the holy-day : 

Skip and trip it on the green, 

And help to choose the Summer Queen ; 

Lash out at a country feast 

Their silver penny with the best. 

Well can they judge of nappy ale, 

And tell at large a winter tale ; 

Climb up to the apple loft, 

And turn the crabs till they be soft. 

Tib is all the father's joy, 

And little Tom the mother's boy: — 

All their pleasure is, Content, 

And care, to pay their yearly rent. 

Joan can call by name her cows 
And deck her windows with green boughs ; 
She can wreaths and tutties make, 
And trim with plums a bridal cake. 
Jack knows what brings gain or loss, 
And his long flail can stoutly toss: 
Makes the hedge which others break, 
And ever thinks what he doth speak. 

— Now, you courtly dames and knights, 
That study only strange delights, 
Though you scorn the homespun gray, 
And revel in your rich array ; 
Though your tongues dissemble deep 
And can your heads from danger keep ; 
Yet, for all your pomp and train, 
Securer lives the silly swain ! 

Thomas Campion 



264 



Sir Walter Scott 



m$7s? 2 cott ' September tfje ftfoent^first 



SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR 

Shall I, wasting in despair, 

Die because a woman's fair ? 

Or make pale my cheeks with care 

'Cause another's rosy are? 

Be she fairer than the day 

Or the flow'ry meads in May — 
If she think not well of me, 
What care I how fair she be ? 

Shall my foolish heart be pined 

'Cause I see a woman kind ; 

Or a well disposed nature 

Joined with a lovely feature ? 

Be she meeker, kinder than 

Turtle-dove or pelican, 
If she be not so to me, 
What care I how kind she be ? 

Shall a woman's virtues move 
Me to perish for her love ? 
Or her well deservings known 
Make me quite forget mine own ? 
Be she with that goodness blest 
Which may gain her name of Best; 
If she be not such to me, 
What care I how good she be? 

Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 

I will ne'er the more despair; 

If she love me, this believe, 

I will die ere she shall grieve ; 

If she slight me when I woo, 

I can scorn and let her go ; 
For if she be not for me, 
What care I for whom she be ? 

George Wither 



265 



September tlje Efoent2=£ecotiti 



TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN 

Thou blossom, bright with autumn dew, 
And coloured with the heaven's own blue, 
That openest when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night ; 

Thou comest not when violets lean 

O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, 

Or columbines in purple dressed, 

Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. 

Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, 
When woods are bare and birds are flown, 
And frosts and shortening days portend 
The aged Year is near his end. 

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky, 
Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 

I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draw near to me, 
Hope, blossoming within my heart, 
May look to heaven as I depart. 

William Cullen Bryant 



266 



Septonfrer tfje 2Ch)entg=tljtrti 



AULD LANG SYNE 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And never brought to min' ? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And auld lang syne ? 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne, 
WeHl tak a cup o" 1 kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne / 

We twa hae run about the braes, 

And pu'd the gowans fine ; 
But we've wandered mony a weary foot 

Sin' auld lang syne. 

We twa hae paidl'd i' the burn 

Frae mornin' sun till dine ; 
But seas between us braid hae roared 

Sin' auld lang syne. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, 

And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught 

For auld lang syne ! 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak a cup o 1 kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne / 

Robert Burns 



267 



September tije 2Ciaetttg=fourtfj 



LONDON CHURCHES 

I stood, one Sunday morning, 
Before a large church door, 
The congregation gathered 
And carriages a score, — 
From one out stepped a lady 
I oft had seen before. 

Her hand was on a prayer-book, 

And held a vinaigrette ; 

The sign of man's redemption 

Clear on the book was set, — 

But above the Cross there glistened 

A golden Coronet. 

For her the obsequious beadle 
The inner door flung wide, 
Lightly, as up a ball-room, 
Her footsteps seemed to glide, — 
There might be good thoughts in her 
For all her evil pride. 

But after her a woman 
Peeped wistfully within, 
On whose wan face was graven 
Life's hardest discipline, — 
The trace of the sad trinity 
Of weakness, pain, and sin. 

The few free-seats were crowded 
Where she could rest and pray ; 
With her worn garb contrasted 
Each side in fair array, — 
; God's house holds no poor sinners," 
She sighed, and crept away. 
Richard Monckton Milnes {Lord Houghton) 



268 



Mrs ' Born I7 " 3 emans ' September tije Etoentg-ftftlj 



SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT 
AVAILETH 

Say not, the struggle nought availeth, 
The labour and the wounds are vain, 

The enemy faints not, nor faileth, 

And as things have been they remain. 

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars ; 

It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd 
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, 

And, but for you, possess the field. 

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, 

Seem here no painful inch to gain, 
Far back, through creeks and inlets making, 

Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 

And not by eastern windows only, 

When daylight comes, comes in the light; 

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly ! 
But westward, look, the land is bright ! 

Arthur Hugh Clough 



A PRAYER 

Lord ! who art merciful as well as just, 
Incline Thine ear to me, a child of dust ! 
Not what I would, O Lord ! I offer Thee, 

Alas ! but what I can. 
Father Almighty, who hast made me man, 
And bade me look to heaven, for Thou art there, 
Accept my sacrifice and humble prayer. 
Four things which are not in Thy treasury 

I lay before Thee, Lord, with this petition: 

My nothingness, my wants, 

My sins, and my contrition. 

Robert Southey 



269 



September ttje Efoentpgixti) 



WHERE LIES THE LAND 

Where lies the land to which the ship would go ? 
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
And where the land she travels from ? Away, 
Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 

On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face, 
Link'd arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace ! 
Or o'er the stern reclining, watch below 
The foaming wake far widening as we go. 

On stormy nights, when wild northwesters rave, 
How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave ! 
The dripping sailor on the reeling mast 
Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. 

Where lies the land to which the ship would go ? 
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
And where the land she travels from? Away, 
Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 

Arthur Hugh Clough 



CARE -CHARMING SLEEP 

Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes, 
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose 
On this afflicted prince ; fall like a cloud, 
In gentle showers ; give nothing that is loud, 
Or painful to his slumbers ; easy, light, 
And as a purling stream, thou son of Night 
Pass by his troubled senses ; sing his pain, 
Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain ; 
Into this prince gently, O gently slide, 
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride. 

John Fletcher 



270 



Septem&er tije Ktoentg^efentij 



OF MY DEAR SON GERVASE BEAUMONT 

Can I, who have for others oft compiled 
The songs of death, forget my sweetest child, 
Which, like the flower crusht, with a blast is dead, 
And ere full time hangs down his smiling head, 
Expecting with clear hope to live anew, 
Among the angels fed with heavenly dew? 
We have this sign of joy, that many days, 
While on the earth his struggling spirit stays, 
The name of Jesus in his mouth contains 
His only food, his sleep, his ease from pains. 
Oh ! may that sound be rooted in my mind, 
Of which in him such strong effect I find. 
Dear Lord, receive my son, whose winning love 
To me was like a friendship, far above 
The course of nature, or his tender age ; 
Whose looks could all my bitter griefs assuage ; 
Let his pure soul, ordained seven years to be 
In that frail body, which was part of me, 
Remain my pledge in heaven, as sent to show, 
How to this port at every step I go. 

Sir John Beaumont 



271 



September tfje &foentg=rigl)ti) 



EVENING HYMN 

The night is come, like to the day ; 

Depart not Thou, great God, away. 

Let not my sins, black as the night, 

Eclipse the lustre of Thy light. 

Keep still in my horizon ; for to me 

The sun makes not the day, but Thee. 

Thou whose nature cannot sleep, 

On my temples sentry keep ! 

Guard me 'gainst those watchful foes, 

Whose eyes are open while mine close ; 

Let no dreams my head infest, 

But such as Jacob's temples blest. 

While I do rest, my soul advance ; 

Make my sleep a holy trance, 

That I may, my rest being wrought, 

Awake into some holy thought; 

And with as active vigour run 

My course as doth the nimble sun. 

Sleep is a death ; oh ! make me try, 

By sleeping, what it is to die : 

And as gently lay my head 

On my grave, as now my bed. 

Howe'er I rest, great God, let me 

Awake again at last with Thee. 

And thus assured, behold I lie 

Securely, or to wake or die. 

These are my drowsy days ; in vain 

I do now wake to sleep again : 

Oh ! come that hour, when I shall never 

Sleep again, but wake for ever. 

Sir Thomas Browne 



272 



St^ttmhtx tije ^tontsmmtij 



A REQUIEM 

Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed 

Never to be disquieted ! 

My last good-night ! thou wilt not wake 

Till I thy fate shall overtake : 

Till age, or grief, or sickness must 

Marry my body to that dust 

It so much loves ; and fill the room 

My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. 

Stay for me there ; I will not fail 

To meet thee in that hollow vale. 

And think not much of my delay: 

I am already on the way, 

And follow thee with all the speed 

Desire can make, or sorrows breed. 

Each minute is a short degree, 

And ev'ry hour a step toward thee. 

Henry King 



LOVE 

All love, at first, like gen'rous wine, 
Ferments and frets, until 'tis fine ; 
But when 'tis settled on the lee, 
And from th' impurer matter free, 
Becomes the richer still, the older, 
And proves the pleasanter, the colder. 
Love is too great a happiness 
For wretched mortals to possess : 
For, could it hold inviolate 
Against those cruelties of Fate, 
Which all felicities below 
By rigid laws are subject to, 
It would become a bliss too high 
For perishing mortality, 
Translate to earth the joys above ; 
For nothing goes to Heaven but love. 

Samuel Butler 



273 



Sqitanto tfje STfjlrttetij 



TO AUTUMN 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness ! 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run ; 
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees, 

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ; 

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 

With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more, 
And still more, later flowers for the bees, 
Until they think warm days will never cease, 

For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells. 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? 

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; 
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers ; 
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 

Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 

Or by a cider-press, with patient look, 

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. 

Where are the songs of Spring ? Ay, where are they ? 

Think not of them — thou hast thy music too : 
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; 
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
Among the river sallows, borne aloft 

Or sinking, as the light wind lives or dies ; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; 
Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft 
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, 
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 

John Keats 



274 



John Keats 
1795-1821 



October tije jFtest 



TO HIS MISTRESS, OBJECTING TO HIM 
NEITHER TOYING OR TALKING 

You say I love not, 'cause I do not play- 
Still with your curls, and kiss the time away. 
You blame me, too, because I can't devise 
Some sport, to please those babies in your eyes ; — 
By Love's religion, I must here confess it, 
The most I love, when I the least express it. 
Small griefs find tongues ; full casks are ever found 
To give, if any, yet but little sound. 
Deep waters noiseless are ; and this we know, 
That chiding streams betray small depth below. 
So when love speechless is, she doth express 
A depth in love, and that depth bottomless. 
Now, since my love is tongueless, know me such, 
Who speak but little, 'cause I love so much. 

Robert Herrick 



THE BAG OF THE BEE 

About the sweet bag of a bee 

Two Cupids fell at odds ; 
And whose the pretty prize should be 

They vow'd to ask the Gods. 

Which' Venus hearing, thither came, 
And for their boldness stript them ; 

And taking thence from each his flame, 
With rods of myrtle whipt them. 

Which done, to still their wanton cries, 
When quiet grown she'd seen them, 

She kiss'd and wiped their dove-like eyes, 
And gave the bag between them. 

Robert Herrick 



275 



©cto&er tfje Secontr 



A FATHER'S BLESSING 

What I shall leave thee none can tell, 

But all shall say I wish thee well ; 

I wish thee, Vin, before all wealth, 

Both bodily and ghostly health : 

Nor too much wealth, nor wit, come to thee, 

So much of either may undo thee. 

I wish thee learning, not for show, 

Enough for to instruct, and know ; 

Not such as gentlemen require, 

To prate at table, or at fire. 

I wish thee all thy mother's graces, 

Thy father's fortunes, and his places. 

I wish thee friends, and one at court, 

Not to build on, but support ; 

To keep thee, not in doing many 

Oppressions, but from suffering any. 

I wish thee peace in all thy ways, 

Nor lazy nor contentious days ; 

And when thy soul and body part, 

As innocent as now thou art. 

Bishop Richard Corbet 



O THAT 'TWERE POSSIBLE 

O that 'twere possible 

After long grief and pain 

To find the arms of my true love 

Round me once again ! . . . 

A shadow flits before me, 

Not thou, but like to thee : 

Ah, Christ ! that it were possible 

For one short hour to see 

The souls we loved, that they might 

tell us 
What and where they be ! 

Alfred Tennyson 



276 



©ctofrer ti}e SCljirti 



CARE -CHARMER SLEEP 

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, 
Brother to Death, in silent darkness born, 
Relieve my languish, and restore the light; 
With dark forgetting of my care return. 

And let the day be time enough to mourn 
The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth : 
Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, 
Without the torment of the night's untruth. 

Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires, 
To model forth the passions of the morrow ; 
Never let rising Sun approve you liars, 
To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow : 

Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain, 
And never wake to feel the day's disdain. 

Samuel Daniel 



LOVE'S FAREWELL 

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part, — 
Nay I have done, you get no more of me ; 
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, 
That thus so cleanly I myself can free ; 

Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, 
And when we meet at any time again, 
Be it not seen in either of our brows 
That we one jot of former love retain. 

Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath, 
When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies, 
When faith is kneeling by his bed of death, 
And innocence is closing up his eyes, 

— Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over, 
From death to life thou might'st him yet recover ! 

Michael Drayton 

277 



©ctofar tijc JFourtJ) 



AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE 

How sweet it were, if, without feeble fright, 

Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, 

An angel came to us, and we could bear 

To see him issue from the silent air 

At evening in our room, and bend on ours 

His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers 

News of dear friends, and children who have never 

Been dead indeed — as we shall know for ever. 

Alas ! we think not what we daily see 

About our hearths — angels, that are to be, 

Or may be if they will, and we prepare 

Their souls and ours to meet in happy air ; 

A child, a friend, a wife, whose soft heart sings 

In unison with ours, breeding its future wings. 

Leigh Hunt 



OVERCOME BY LOVE 

In martial sports I had my cunning tried, 

And yet to break more staves did me address; 

While with the people's shouts I must confess, 
Youth, luck, and praise e'en filled my veins with pride ; 
When Cupid having me, his slave, descried 

In Mars's livery, prancing in the press, 
" What now, Sir Fool ? " said he, " I would no less ; 
Look here, I say." — I looked, and Stella spied, 

Who, hard by, made a window send forth light; 
My heart then quaked ; than dazzled were mine eyes : 

One hand forgot to rule, the other to fight ; 
Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries. 

My foe came on and beat the air for me, 

Till that her blush taught me my shame to see. 

Sir Philip Sidney 



278 



Bryan Waller Procter, 
Died 1874 



©ctober tjje jFtftij 



TO CELIA 

Drink to me only with thine eyes, 

And I will pledge with mine ; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine ; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 

I would not change for thine. 

T sent thee late a rosy wreath, 

Not so much honouring thee 
As giving it a hope that there 

It could not wither'd be ; 
But thou thereon didst only breathe 

And sent'st it back to me ; 
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 

Not of itself but thee ! 

Ben Jonson 



LOVE NOT ME FOR COMELY GRACE 

Love not me for comely grace, 
For my pleasing eye or face, 
Nor for any outward part, 
No, nor for my constant heart, — 
For those may fail, or turn to ill, 
So thou and I shall sever: 
Keep therefore a true woman's eye, 
And love me still, but know not why — 
So hast thou the same reason still 
To doat upon me ever ! 

Anon 



279 



©ctofter tfje Sixty ^vmSST* 



THE INDIAN SERENADE 

I arise from dreams of thee 

In the first sweet sleep of night, 

When the winds are breathing low 

And the stars are shining bright: 

I arise from dreams of thee, 

And a spirit in my feet 

Hath led me — who knows how ? 

To thy chamber-window, Sweet ! 

The wandering airs they faint 
On the dark, the silent stream — 
And the champak's odours fail 
Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 
The nightingale's complaint 
It dies upon her heart, 
As I must die on thine 
O beloved as thou art ! 

lift me from the grass ! 

1 die, I faint, I fail ! 

Let thy love in kisses rain 
On my lips and eyelids pale. 
My cheek is cold and white, alas ! 
My heart beats loud and fast ; 
O ! press it close to thine again, 
Where it will break at last. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 



280 



§SSa n n de ^ H fe s ' l8 D 4 l edl894 ©cto&er tlje Sebrnttj 



GREEN GROW THE RASHES O! 

Green grow the rashes O, 

Green grow the rashes O ; 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend 

Are spent amang the lasses O. 

There's naught but care on ev'ry han', 

In every hour that passes O ; 
What signifies the life o' man, 

An' 't were na for the lasses O ? 

The war'ly race may riches chase, 

An' riches still may fly them O ; 
An' though at last they catch them fast, 

Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them O. 

Gie me a canny hour at e'en, 

My arms about my dearie O, 
An' war'ly cares an' war'ly men 

May a' gae tapsalteerie O ! 

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this ; 

YeVe naught but senseless asses O! 
The wisest man the warP e'er saw 

He dearly lo'ed the lasses O. 

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 

Her noblest work she classes O : 
Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, 

An' then she made the lasses O. 

Robert Burns 



281 



October tfje lEigJjrfj 



CUPID SWALLOWED 

T'other day, as I was twining 

Roses for a crown to dine in, 

What, of all things, midst the heap, 

Should I light on, fast asleep, 

But the little desperate elf, 

The tiny traitor, — Love himself ! 

By the wings I pinched him up 

Like a bee, and in a cup 

Of my wine I plunged and sank him ; 

And what d'ye think I did ? — I drank 

him ! 
Faith, I thought him dead. Not he ! 
There he lives with tenfold glee ; 
And now this moment, with his wings 
I feel him tickling my heart-strings. 

Leigh Hunt 



KISSING HER HAIR 

Kissing her hair, I sat against her feet : 
Wove and unwove it, — wound, and found it sweet ; 
Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes, 
Deep as deep flowers, and dreamy like dim skies ; 
With her own tresses bound, and found her fair, — 
Kissing her hair. 

Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me, — 
Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea : 
What pain could get between my face and hers? 
What new sweet thing would Love not relish worse ? 
Unless, perhaps, white Death had kissed me there, — 
Kissing her hair. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 



282 



October tfje Ntntf) 



ADVICE TO A GIRL 

Never love unless you can 

Bear with all the faults of man ! 

Men sometimes will jealous be 

Though but little cause they see, 

And hang the head as discontent, 

And speak what straight they will repent. 

Men, that but one Saint adore, 
Make a show of love to more ; 
Beauty must be scorn'd in none, 
Though but truly served in one : 
For what is courtship but disguise ? 
True hearts may have dissembling eyes. 

Men, when their affairs require, 
Must awhile themselves retire ; 
Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk, 
And not ever sit and talk : — 
If these and such-like you can bear, 
Then like, and love, and never fear ! 

Thomas Campion 



ABSENCE 

When I think on the happy days 

I spent wi' you, my dearie ; 
And now what lands between us lie, 

How can I be but eerie ! 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, 

As ye were wae and weary ! 
It was na sae ye glinted by 

When I was wi' my dearie. 

Anon 



*3 



©ctofter tije &entij 

LULLABY 

Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea, 
Low, low, breathe and blow, 

Wind of the western sea ! 
Over the rolling waters go, 
Come from the dying moon, and blow, 

Blow him again to me ; 
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 

Father will come to thee soon ; 
Rest, rest, on mother's breast, 

Father will come to thee soon ; 
Father will come to his babe in the nest, 
Silver sails all out of the west 
Under the silver moon : 
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. 

Alfred Tennyson 

"BREAK, BREAK, BREAK" 

Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman's boy, 

That he shouts with his sister at play ! 

O well for the sailor lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 

And the stately ships go on 

To their haven under the hill ! 
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 

And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
Will never come back to me. 

Alfred Tennyson 
284 



©ctober tfje lElebnttfj 



THE LAST CONQUEROR 

Victorious men of earth, no more 

Proclaim how wide your empires are ; 

Though you bind-in every shore 
And your triumphs reach as far 

As night or day, 
Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey 

And mingle with forgotten ashes, when 

Death calls ye to the crowd of common men. 

Devouring Famine, Plague, and War, 

Each able to undo mankind, 

Death's servile emissaries are ; 

Nor to these alone confined, 

He hath at will 
More quaint and subtle ways to kill ; 
A smile or kiss, as he will use the art, 
Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart. 

James Shirley 



THE BUBBLE 

This Life, which seems so fair, 

Is like a bubble blown up in the air 

By sporting children's breath, 

Who chase it everywhere 

And strive who can most motion it bequeath. 

And though it sometimes seem of its own might 

Like to an eye of gold to be fix'd there, 

And firm to hover in that empty height, 

That only is because it is so light. 

— But in that pomp it doth not long appear ; 

For when 'tis most admired, in a thought, 

Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought. 

William Drummond 



285 



©ctoher tfje ftfoeKtij 



MY DAYS AMONG THE DEAD 

My days among the Dead are past; 

Around me I behold, 

Where'er these casual eyes are cast, 

The mighty minds of old : 

My never-failing friends are they, 

With whom I converse day by day. 

With them I take delight in weal 

And seek relief in woe ; 

And while I understand and feel 

How much to them I owe, 

My cheeks have often been bedew'd 

With tears of thoughtful gratitude. 

My thoughts are with the Dead ; with them 

I live in long-past years, 

Their virtues love, their faults condemn, 

Partake their hopes and fears, 

And from their lessons seek and find 

Instruction with an humble mind. 

My hopes are with the Dead ; anon 
My place with them will be, 
And I with them shall travel on 
Through all Futurity ; 
Yet leaving here a name, I trust, 
That will not perish in the dust. 

Robert Southey 



286 



Wll Xn? 7 h 9 e 7 rweI1, ©etcher tfje Cijirtemtfj 



TO AN ATHLETE DYING YOUNG 

The time you won your town the race 
We chaired you through the market-place; 
Man and boy stood cheering by, 
And home we brought you shoulder-high. 

To-day, the road all runners come, 
Shoulder-high we bring you home, 
And set you at your threshold down, 
Townsman of a stiller town. 

Smart lad, to slip betimes away 

From fields where glory does not stay — 

And early though the laurel grows 

It withers quicker than the rose. 

Eyes the shady night has shut 
Cannot see the record cut, 
And silence sounds no worse than cheers 
After earth has stopped the ears ; 

Now you will not swell the rout 
Of lads that wore their honours out, 
Runners whom renown outran 
And the name died before the man. 

So set, before its echoes fade, 
The fleet foot on the sill of shade, 
And hold to the low lintel up 
The still-defended challenge-cup. 

And round that early-laurelled head 
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead, 
And find unwithered on its curls 
The garland briefer than a girl's. 

A. E. Housman 



©ctofter tlje jFourteotti) 



THE UPRIGHT MAN 

The man of life upright, 

Whose guiltless heart is free 
From all dishonest deeds, 

Or thought of vanity ; 

The man whose silent days 

In harmless joys are spent, 
Whom hopes cannot delude 

Nor sorrow discontent : 

That man needs neither towers 

Nor armour for defence, 
Nor secret vaults to fly 

From thunder's violence : 

He only can behold 

With unaffrighted eyes 
The horrors of the deep 

And terrors of the skies. 

Thus scorning all the cares 

That fate or fortune brings, 
He makes the heaven his book, 

His wisdom heavenly things ; 

Good thoughts his only friends, 

His wealth a well-spent age, 
The earth his sober inn 

And quiet pilgrimage. 

Thomas Campion 



R t e ri t ed H 1 e 6 r 7 t k ' ©cto&er tfje tftftemtij 



MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE 

My life is like the summer rose 

That opens to the morning sky, 
But ere the shades of evening close, 

Is scattered on the ground — to die ! 
Yet on the rose's humble bed 
The sweetest dews of night are shed, 
As if she wept the waste to see, — 
But none shall weep a tear for me ! 

My life is like the autumn leaf 

That trembles in the moon's pale ray; 
Its hold is frail, — its date is brief, 

Restless, — and soon to pass away ! 
Yet ere that leaf shall fall and fade, 
The parent tree will mourn its shade, 
The winds bewail the leafless tree, — 
But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 

My life is like the prints which feet 

Have left on Tampa's desert strand ; 
Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 

All trace will vanish from the sand ; 
Yet, as if grieving to efface 
All vestige of the human race, 
On that lone shore loud moans the sea, — 
But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 

Richard Henry Wilde 



289 



©ctofter tfje Sixteenth 



A LESSON 

There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine, 
That shrinks like many more from cold and rain, 
And the first moment that the sun may shine, 
Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again ! 

When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm, 
Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest, 
Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm 
In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest. 

But lately, one rough day, this Flower I past, 
And recognised it, though an alter'd form, 
Now standing forth an offering to the blast, 
And buffeted at will by rain and storm. 

I stopp'd and said, with inly-mutter'd voice, 
" It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold 
This neither is its courage nor its choice, 
But its necessity in being old. 

" The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew; 
It cannot help itself in its decay; 
Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue," — 
And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray. 

To be a prodigal's favourite — then, worse truth, 
A miser's pensioner — behold our lot ! 
O Man ! that from thy fair and shining youth 
Age might but take the things Youth needed not ! 

Williatn Wordsworth 



290 



©ctober tfje Sefcoiteentlj 



I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER 

I remember, I remember 
The house where I was born, 
The little window where the sun 
Came peeping in at morn ; 
He never came a wink too soon 
Nor brought too long a day ; 
But now, I often wish the night 
Had borne my breath away. 

I rerr.„.x/oer, I remember 

The roses, red and white, 

The violets, and the lily-cups — 

Those flowers made of light ! 

The lilacs where the robin built, 

And where my brother set 

The laburnum on his birthday, — 

The tree is living yet ! 

I remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swing, 

And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing ; 

My spirit flew in feathers then 

That is so heavy now, 

And summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow. 

I remember, I remember 

The fir-trees dark and high ; 

I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky : 

It was a childish ignorance, 

But now 'tis little joy 

To know I'm farther off from Heaven 

Than when I was a boy. 

Thomas Hood 



291 



©ctober tfje lEisJjteentf) Kdsa H£\£? aaa 



WORK WITHOUT HOPE 

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair — 

The bees are stirring — birds are on the wing — 

And Winter, slumbering in the open air, 

Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring ! 

And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing, 

Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. 

Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, 
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. 
Bloom, O ye amaranths ! bloom for whom ye may, 
For me ye bloom not ! Glide, rich streams, away ! 
With lips unbrighten'd, wreathless brow, I stroll : 
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul ? 
Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, 
And Hope without an object cannot live. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge 



A DITTY 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his, 
By just exchange one for another given : 
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, 
There never was a better bargain driven : 
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 

His heart in me keeps him and me in one, 
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides : 
He loves my heart, for once it was his own, 
I cherish his because in me it bides: 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 

Sir Philip Sidney 



z 9 z 



j&Sft&SltfU ©**« ft* 'SitUtttnOS 



ASK ME NO MORE 

Ask me no more : the moon may draw the sea ; 
The cloud may stoop from heaven and take 

the shape, 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape ; 
But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee? 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : what answer should I give ? 
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye : 
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die ! 

Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live ; 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are seal'd : 
I strove against the stream and all in vain : 
Let the great river take me to the main : 
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ; 
Ask me no more. 

Alfred Tennyson 



A LAND DIRGE 

Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, 

Since o'er shady groves they hover 

And with leaves and flowers do cover 

The friendless bodies of unburied men. 

Call unto his funeral dole 

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole 

To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm 

And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no 

harm ; 
But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men, 
For with his nails he'll dig them up again. 

John Webster 



293 



October tfje SDixrenttetft 



CUPID AND CAMPASPE 

Cupid and my Campaspe play'd 

At cards for kisses ; Cupid paid : 

He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, 

His mother's doves, and team of sparrows ; 

Loses them too ; then down he throws 

The coral of his lip, the rose 

Growing on's cheek (but none knows how) ; 

With these, the crystal of his brow, 

And then the dimple on his chin; 

All these did my Campaspe win : 

And last he set her both his eyes — 

She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 

O Love ! has she done this to thee ? 

What shall, alas ! become of me ? 

John Lyly 



THAT TIME OF YEAR 

That time of year thou may'st in me behold 
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang 
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, 
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang : 

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day 
As after sunset fadeth in the west, 
Which by and by black night doth take away, 
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest : 

In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire, 
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie 
As the death-bed whereon it must expire, 
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by : 

— This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more 

strong, 
To love that well which thou must leave ere long. 

William Shakespeare 



294 



Samuel T^Coleridge, (QttOitX fyt WUttti&5XS& 



ON HIS BLINDNESS 

When I consider how my light is spent 
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, 
And that one talent which is death to hide 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 

To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
My true account, lest He returning chide, — 
" Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ? " 
I fondly ask : — But Patience, to prevent 

That murmur, soon replies ; " God doth not need 
Either man's work, or His own gifts : who best 
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best : His state 

" Is kingly ; thousands at His bidding speed 
And post o'er land and ocean without rest : — 
They also serve who only stand and wait." 

John Milton 



DROP, DROP, SLOW TEARS 

Drop, drop, slow tears, 

And bathe those beauteous feet 
Which brought from Heaven 

The news and Prince of Peace ! 
Cease not, wet eyes, 

His mercy to entreat ; 
To cry for vengeance 

Sin doth never cease ; 
In your deep floods 

Drown all my faults and fears ; 
Nor let His eye 

See sin but through my tears. 

Phineas Fletcher 



295 



©ctofar tije Etoents=secontr 



GRIEF 

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless — 
That only men incredulous of despair, 
Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air, 

Beat upward to God's throne in loud access 

Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness 
In souls, as countries, lieth silent, bare, 
Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare 

Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, express 

Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death ; 
Most like a monumental statue set 

In everlasting watch and moveless woe, 

Till itself crumble to the dust beneath. 

Touch it : the marble eyelids are not wet — 

If it could weep, it could arise and go. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning 



I GIVE THEE ETERNITY 

How many paltry, foolish, painted things, 

That now in coaches trouble every street, 
Shall be forgotten, whom no poet sings, 

Ere they be well wrapped in their winding-sheet, 
Where I to thee eternity shall give 

When nothing else remaineth of these days, 
And queens hereafter shall be glad to live 

Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise ; 
Virgins and matrons reading these, my rhymes, 

Shall be so much delighted with thy story, 
That they shall grieve they lived not in these times, 

To have seen thee, their sex's only glory ; 
So shalt thou fly above the vulgar throng, 
Still to survive in my immortal song. 

Michael Drayton 



296 



©ctota tije 5niajentg=ti)trn 



I DO NOT LOVE THEE FOR THAT FAIR 

I do not love thee for that fair 
Rich fan of thy most curious hair, 
Though the wires thereof be drawn 
Finer than the threads of lawn, 
And are softer than the leaves 
On which the subtle spider weaves. 

I do not love thee for those flowers 
Growing on thy cheeks, — love's bowers, — 
Though such cunning them hath spread, 
None can paint them white and red. 
Love's golden arrows thence are shot, 
Yet for them I love thee not. 

I do not love thee for those soft 
Red coral lips I've kissed so oft ; 
Nor teeth of pearl, the double guard 
To speech whence music still is heard, 
Though from those lips a kiss being taken 
Might tyrants melt, and death awaken. 

I do not love thee, O my fairest, 
For that richest, for that rarest 
Silver pillar which stands under 
Thy sound head, that globe of wonder; 
Though that neck be whiter far 
Than towers of polished ivory are. 

Thomas Carew 



297 



©rto&er tfje ffifaentgsfourtfj 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC 

There be none of Beauty's daughters 

With a magic like Thee ; 
And like music on the waters 

Is thy sweet voice to me : 
When, as if its sound were causing 
The charmed ocean's pausing, 
The waves lie still and gleaming, 
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming : 

And the midnight moon is weaving 

Her bright chain o'er the deep, 
Whose breast is gently heaving 

As an infant's asleep : 
So the spirit bows before thee 
To listen and adore thee ; 
With a full but soft emotion, 
Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 

Lord Byron 



MY LOVE'S ATTIRE 

My love in her attire doth show her wit, 

It doth so well become her: 
For every season she hath dressings fit, 

For Winter, Spring, and Summer. 
No beauty she doth miss 
When all her robes are on : 
But Beauty's self she is 
When all her robes are gone. 

Anon 



298 



George Gordon, Lord 'Byron 
1788-1824 



T^HS^^JST ®CtOitX tfp &foentg=fift|j 



DUNCAN GRAY 

Duncan Gray cam here to woo, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't; 
On blythe Yule night when we were fou, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't: 
Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't ! 

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd ; 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig; 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', 
Spak o' lowpin ower a linn ! 

Time and chance are but a tide, 

Slighted love is sair to bide ; 
" Shall I, like a fool," quoth he, 
" For a haughty hizzie dee ? 

She may gae to — France for me ! " 

How it comes let doctors tell, 

Meg grew sick — as he grew well ; 

Something in her bosom wrings, 

For relief a sigh she brings ; 

And O, her een, they spak sic things ! 

Duncan was a lad o' grace ; 
Maggie's was a piteous case ; 
Duncan couldna be her death, 
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
Now they're crouse and canty baith : 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't ! 

Robert Burns 



299 



©ctofar tfje 2Dlxrent2=stxtij 



THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE 

Come live with me and be my Love, 
And we will all the pleasures prove 
That hills and valleys, dale and field, 
And all the craggy mountains yield. 

There will we sit upon the rocks 
And see the shepherds feed their flocks, 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

There will I make thee beds of roses 
And a thousand fragrant posies, 
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle 
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. 

A gown made of the finest wool, 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull, 
Fair lined slippers for the cold, 
With buckles of the purest gold. 

A belt of straw and ivy buds 
With coral clasps and amber studs : 
And if these pleasures may thee move, 
Come live with me and be my Love. 

Thy silver dishes for thy meat 
As precious as the gods do eat, 
Shall on an ivory table be 
Prepared each day for thee and me. 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
For thy delight each May-morning: 
If these delights thy mind may move, 
Then live with me and be my Love. 

Christopher Marlowe 



300 



©ctofar tfjc KtoentS'Sebentl) 



WHEN WE TWO PARTED 

When we two parted 

In silence and tears, 

Half broken-hearted, 

To sever for years, 

Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 

Colder thy kiss ; 

Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this ! 

The dew of the morning 
Sunk chill on my brow ; 
It felt like the warning 
Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken, 
And light is thy fame : 
I hear thy name spoken 
And share in its shame. 

They name thee before me, 
A knell to mine ear ; 
A shudder comes o'er me — 
Why wert thou so dear ? 
They know not I knew thee 
Who knew thee too well : 
Long, long shall I rue thee, 
Too deeply to tell. 

In secret we met : 

In silence I grieve 

That thy heart could forget, 

Thy spirit deceive. 

If I should meet thee 

After long years, 

How should I greet thee ? — 

With silence and tears. 

Lord Byron 



301 



©ctolier tije ftfoent^rigljtfj 



PACK, CLOUDS, AWAY 

Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day, 

With night we banish sorrow ; 
Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft 

To give my Love good-morrow ! 
Wings from the wind to please her mind, 

Notes from the lark I'll borrow; 
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing, 

To give my Love good-morrow ; 

To give my Love good-morrow 
Notes from them both I'll borrow. 

Wake from thy nest, Robin-redbreast, 

Sing, birds, in every furrow ; 
And from each hill, let music shrill 
Give my fair Love good-morrow ! 
Blackbird and thrush in every bush, 

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow ! 
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves 
Sing my fair Love good-morrow ; 
To give my Love good-morrow 
Sing, birds, in every furrow ! 

Thomas Heywood 

PERSUASIONS TO JOY: A SONG 

If the quick spirits in your eye 

Now languish and anon must die ; 

If every sweet and every grace 

Must fly from that forsaken face; 
Then, Celia, let us reap our joys 
Ere Time such goodly fruit destroys. 

Or if that golden fleece must grow 

For ever free from aged snow ; 

If those bright suns must know no shade, 

Nor your fresh beauties ever fade ; 
Then fear not, Celia, to bestow 
What, still being gather'd, still must grow. 

Thus either Time his sickle brings 
In vain, or else in vain his wings. 

Thomas Careiv 
302 



©ctober tfje Ctoentgmintlj 



Al LULLABY 

Upon my lap my sovereign sits 
And sucks upon my breast ; 
Meantime his love maintains my life 
And gives my sense her rest. 
Sing lullaby, my little ^oy, 
Sing lullaby, mine only joy ! 

When thou hast taken thy repast, 

Repose, my babe, on me ; 

So may thy mother and thy nurse 

Thy cradle also be. 

Sing lullaby, my little boy, 
Sing lullaby, mine only joy ! 

I grieve that duty doth not work 

All that my wishing would, 

Because I would not be to thee 

But in the best I should. 
Sing lullaby, my little boy, 
Sing lullaby, mine only joy ! 

Yet as I am, and as I may, 

I must and will be thine, 

Though all too little for thy self 

Vouchsafing to be mine. 
Sing lullaby, my little boy, 
Sing lullaby, mine only joy ! 



Anon 



303 



fficto&er tlje ®ljirttetlj Ad£ 



Born li 



SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE 

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand 
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore 
Alone upon the threshold of my door 

Of individual life, I shall command 

The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand 
Serenely in the sunshine as before, 
Without the sense of that which I forbore, . . . 

Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land 

Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine 
With pulses that beat double. What I do 

And what I dream include thee, as the wine 
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue 

God for myself, He hears that name of thine, 
And sees within my eyes the tears of two. 

How do I love thee ? Let me count the ways. 

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height 

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. 
I love thee to the level of every day's 

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right ; 
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. 
I love thee with the passion put to use 

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. 
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 

With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath, 
Smiles, tears, of all my life ! — and, if God choose, 

I shall but love thee better after death. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning 



3°4 



'$£?%£• ©ctofcer tfje a:ijirts=first 



LOVESIGHT 

When do I see thee most, beloved one ? 

When in the light the spirits of mine eyes 

Before thy face, their altar, solemnise 
The worship of that Love through thee made known? 
Or when, in the dusk hours (we two alone), 

Close-kiss'd, and eloquent of still replies 

Thy twilight-hidden glimmering visage lies, 
And my soul only sees thy soul its own ? 
O love, my love ! if I no more should see 
Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee, 

Nor image of thine eyes in any spring, — 
How then should sound upon Life's darkening slope 
The ground-whirl of the perish'd leaves of Hope, 

The wind of Death's imperishable wing ? 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti 



THE FIRST KISS 

If only in dreams may man be fully blest, 

Is heav'n a dream ? Is she I clasp'd a dream ? 

Or stood she here even now where dewdrops gleam 
And miles of furze shine golden down the West ? 
I seem to clasp her still — still on my breast 

Her bosom beats, — I see the blue eyes beam : — 

I think she kiss'd these lips, for now they seem 
Scarce mine : so hallow'd of the lips they press'd ! 
Yon thicket's breath — can that be eglantine ? 

Those birds — can they be morning's choristers ? 

Can this be earth ? Can these be banks of furze ? 
Like burning bushes fir'd of God they shine ! 
I seem to know them, though this body of mine 

Pass'd into spirit at the touch of hers ! 

Theodore Watts-Dunton 



305 



Nofamier tfje jFtrst 



VENUS' RUNAWAY 

Beauties, have ye seen this toy, 
Called Love, a little boy, 
Almost naked, wanton, blind; 
Cruel now, and then as kind ? 
If he be amongst ye, say ? 
He is Venus' runaway. 

He hath marks about him plenty : 
You shall know him among twenty. 
All his body is a fire, 
And his breath a flame entire, 
That, being shot like lightning in, 
Wounds the heart, but not the skin. 

Trust him not ; his words, though sweet, 

Seldom with his heart do meet. 

All his practice is deceit ; 

Every gift it is a bait ; 

Not a kiss but poison bears ; 

And most treason in his tears. 

Idle minutes are his reign ; 

Then, the straggler makes his gain, 

By presenting maids with toys, 

And would have ye think them joys : 

'Tis the ambition of the elf 

To have all childish as himself. 

If by these ye please to know him, 
Beauties, be not nice, but show him. 
Though ye had a will to hide him, 
Now, we hope, ye'll not abide him ; 
Since you hear his falser play, 
And that he's Venus' runaway. 

Ben Jonson 



306 



Nofamfar tfje Seconti 

THE KISS 

1. Among thy fancies tell me this: 
What is the thing we call a kiss ? — 

2. I shall resolve ye what it is : 

It is a creature born and bred 
Between the lips all cherry-red, 
By love and warm desires fed ; 
Chor. And makes more soft the bridal bed. 

It is an active flame that flies 
First to the babies of the eyes, 
And charms them there with lullabies; 
Chor. And stills the bride too when she cries. 

Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear, 
It frisks and flies, — now here, now there ; 
'Tis now far off, and then 'tis near ; 
Chor. And here, and there, and everywhere. 

i. Has it a speaking virtue ? — 2. Yes. 
1 . How speaks it, say ? — 2. Do you but this : 
Part your join'd lips, — then speaks your 
kiss; 
Chor. And this Love's sweetest language is. 

1. Has it a body? — 2. Ay, and wings, 
With thousand rare encolourings ; 
And as it flies, it gently sings : 
Chor. Love honey yields, but never stings. 

Robert Herrick 

THE WHITE ROSE 

SENT BY A YORKISH LOVER TO HIS LANCASTRIAN 
MISTRESS 

If this fair rose offend thy sight, 

Placed in thy bosom bare, 
'Twill blush to find itself less white 

And turn Lancastrian there. 

But if thy ruby lip it spy, 

As kiss it thou mayst deign, 
With envy pale 'twill lose its dye, 

And Yorkish turn again. 



Anon 



307 



Nofamher tfje EJjtrti wm ^ m B ^ 7 n 9 ^ nt ' 



FAIRY SONG 

Shed no tear ! O shed no tear ! 
The flower will bloom another year. 
Weep no more ! O weep no more ! 
Young buds sleep in the root's white core. 
Dry your eyes ! O dry your eyes ! 
For I was taught in Paradise 
To ease my breast of melodies, — 
Shed no tear. 

Overhead ! look overhead ! 
'Mong the blossoms white and red, — 
Look up, look up ! I flutter now 
On this flush pomegranate bough. 
See me ! 'tis this silvery bill 
Ever cures the good man's ill. 
Shed no tear ! O shed no tear ! 
The flower will bloom another year. 
Adieu, adieu — I fly — adieu ! 
I vanish in the heaven's blue, — 

Adieu, adieu ! 

John Keats 



OVER HILL, OVER DALE 

Over hill, over dale, 

Thorough bush, thorough brier, 
Over park, over pale, 

Thorough flood, thorough fire, 
I do wander everywhere, 
Swifter than the moon's sphere ; 
And I serve the fairy queen, 
To dew her orbs upon the green : 
The cowslips tall her pensioners be, 
In their gold coats spots you see; 
Those be rubies, fairy favours, 
In those freckles live their savours : 
I must go seek some dewdrops here, 
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. 

William Shakespeare 
308 



Nobemfcer tije jfaurtfj 



INFANT JOY 

" I have no name ; 
I am but two days old." 

— What shall I call thee? 
" I happy am ; 

Joy is my name." 

— Sweet joy befall thee ! 

Pretty joy ! 

Sweet joy, but two days old ; 

Sweet joy I call thee : 

Thou dost smile : 

I sing the while, 

Sweet joy befall thee ! 

William Blake 



A CRADLE SONG 

Sleep, sleep, beauty bright, 
Dreaming in the joys of night; 
Sleep, sleep ; in thy sleep 
Little sorrows sit and weep. 

Sweet babe, in thy face 
Soft desires I can trace, 
Secret joys and secret smiles, 
Little pretty infant wiles. 

As thy softest limbs I feel, 
Smiles as of the morning steal 
O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast 
Where thy little heart doth rest. 

Oh the cunning wiles that creep 
In thy little heart asleep ! 
When thy little heart doth wake, 
Then the dreadful light shall break. 

William Blake 



3°9 



Nofam&er tfje JFiftfj 



WILLIE WINKIE 

Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town, 

Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown, 

Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, 

" Are the weans in their bed? — for it's now ten o'clock." 

Hey, Willie Winkie ! are ye comin' ben ? 

The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen, 

The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep ; 

But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa' asleep. 

Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue : — glow'rin' like the moon, 
Rattlin' in an aim jug wi' an aim spoon, 
Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, era win' like a cock, 
Skirlin' like a kenna-what — wauknin' sleepin' folk ! 

Hey, Willie Winkie ! the wean's in a creel ! 
Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel, 
Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums : 
Hey, Willie Winkie ! — See, there he comes ! 

Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean, 
A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane, 
That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he'll close an ee ; 
But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me. 

William Miller 



SOUND, SOUND THE CLARION 

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife ! 

To all the sensual world proclaim, 
One crowded hour of glorious life 

Is worth an age without a name. 

Sir Walter Scott 



3 to 



November tfje <Stxt|) 



THE GIRL DESCRIBES HER FAWN 

With sweetest milk and sugar first 

I it at my own fingers nursed ; 

And as it grew, so every day 

It wax'd more white and sweet than they — 

It had so sweet a breath ! and oft 

I blush'd to see its foot more soft 

And white, — shall I say, — than my hand ? 

Nay, any lady's of the land ! 



I have a garden of my own, 

But so with roses overgrown 

And lilies, that you would it guess 

To be a little wilderness : 

And all the spring-time of the year 

It only loved to be there. 

Among the beds of lilies I 

Have sought it oft, where it should lie ; 

Yet could not, till itself would rise, 

Find it, although before mine eyes : — 

For in the flaxen lilies' shade 

It like a bank of lilies laid. 

Upon the roses it would feed, 

Until its lips e'en seem'd to bleed : 

And then to me 'twould boldly trip, 

And print those roses on my lip. 

But all its chief delight was still 

On roses thus itself to fill, 

And its pure virgin limbs to fold 

In whitest sheets of lilies cold : — 

Had it lived long, it would have been 

Lilies without — roses within. 

Andrew Marvell 



3ii 



November tfje Setenrt) 



FAIRY SONGS 



Where the bee sucks, there suck I : 
In a cowslip's bell I lie ; 
There I couch, when owls do cry : 
On the bat's back I do fly- 
After summer merrily. 

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, 

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough ! 



Come unto these yellow sands, 

And then take hands : 
Courtsied when you have, and kiss'd 

The wild waves whist, 
Foot it featly here and there ; 
And, sweet Sprites, the burthen bear. 
Hark, hark ! 

Bow-wow. 
The watch-dogs bark : 

Bow-wow. 
Hark, hark ! I hear 
The strain of strutting chanticleer 
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dovv ! 

William Shakespeare 



312 



$%£$££&&»***» MobemSer tije Eiflljfli 



A BRIDAL SONG 

Roses, their sharp spines being gone, 
Not royal in their smells alone, 

But in their hue ; 
Maiden-pinks, of odour faint ; 
Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint, 

And sweet thyme true ; 

Primrose, first-born child of Ver, 
Merry spring-time's harbinger, 

With her bells dim ; 
Oxlips in their cradles growing, 
Marigolds on death-beds blowing, 

Lark-heels trim ; 

All, dear Nature's children sweet, 
Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet, 

Blessing their sense ! 
Not an angel of the air, 
Bird melodious, or bird fair, 

Be absent hence ! 

The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor 
The boding raven, nor chough hoar, 

Nor chattering pie, 
May on our bride-house perch or sing, 
Or with them any discord bring, 

But from it fly. 

Beaumont and Fletcher 



3*3 



Nobemfar tlje Ntntlj 



COME, THOU MONARCH OF THE VINE 

Come, thou monarch of the vine, 
Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne ! 
In thy vats our cares be drowned, 
With thy grapes our hairs be crowned : 

Cup us till the world go round, 

Cup us till the world go round ! 

William Shakespeare 



PERFECT BEAUTY 

It was a beauty that I saw 

So pure, so perfect, as the frame 

Of all the universe was lame, 
To that one figure, could I draw, 
Or give least line of it a law ! 

A skein of silk without a knot, 
A fair march made without a halt, 
A curious form without a fault, 

A printed book without a blot, 

All beauty, and without a spot ! 

Ben Jonson 



3U 



Sic^^lc^Born 72 ^, November tfje ftentl) 



MEMORY 

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 

I summon up remembrance of things past, 

I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, 

And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste ; 

Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, 
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, 
And weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe, 
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight. 

Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, 
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, 
Which I new pay as if not paid before : 

— But if the while I think on thee, dear Friend, 
All losses are restored, and sorrows end. 

Williain Shakespeare 



SLEEP 

Come, Sleep : O Sleep ! the certain knot of peace, 
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, 
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, 
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low ; 

With shield of proof shield me from out the prease 
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw ; 

make in me those civil wars to cease ; 

1 will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, 
A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light, 
A rosy garland and a weary head : 
And if these things, as being thine in right, 

Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, 
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. 

Sir Philip Sidney 
3 r 5 



Nofomfar tJje 3Ele&entfj Thomas Bo B rS 3 6 ldrich ' 



VIA AMORIS 

High-way, since you my chief Parnassus be, 
And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet, 
Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet 
More oft than to a chamber-melody, — 

Now, blessed you bear onward blessed me 
To her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet; 
My Muse and I must you of duty greet 
With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully ; 

Be you still fair, honour'd by public heed; 
By no encroachment wrong'd, nor time forgot ; 
Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed ; 
And that you know I envy you no lot 

Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss, — 
Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss ! 

Sir Philip Sidney 



TO SLEEP 

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by 
One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees 
Murmuring ; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, 
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky : 

I've thought of all by turns, and yet do lie 
Sleepless ; and soon the small birds' melodies 
Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees, 
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 

Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, 
And could not win thee, Sleep ! by any stealth : 
So do not let me wear to-night away : 

Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth ? 
Come, blessed barrier between day and day, 
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health ! 

William Wordswoj'th 
3i6 



November tije SCSwelftl) 



GO, LOVELY ROSE 

Go, lovely Rose ! 
Tell her, that wastes her time and me, 

That now she knows, 
When I resemble her to thee, 
How sweet and fair she seems to be. 

Tell her that's young 
And shuns to have her graces spied, 

That hadst thou sprung 
In deserts, where no men abide, 
Thou must have uncommended died. 

Small is the worth 
Of beauty from the light retired : 

Bid her come forth, 
Suffer herself to be desired, 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die ! that she 
The common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee : 
How small a part of time they share 
That are so wondrous sweet and fair ! 

Edmund Waller 



3*7 



Nobemfcer tfje Eljirteentfj ^iS&SzX^ 1 ' 



THE TWA CORBIES 

As I was walking all alane 
I heard twa corbies making a mane ; 
The tane unto the t'other say, 
" Where sail we gang and dine to-day ? " 

" — In behint yon auld fail dyke, 
I wot there lies a new-slain Knight; 
And naebody kens that he lies there, 
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair. 

" His hound is to the hunting gane, 
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, 
His lady's ta'en another mate, 
So we may mak our dinner sweet. 

" Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane, 
And I'll pick out his bonnie blue een: 
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair 
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare. 

" Mony a one for him makes mane, 
But nane sail ken where he is gane ; 
O'er his white banes, when they are bare, 
The wind sail blaw for evermair." 

Anon 



3i8 



Nobanfar tfje JFourteentfj 



THE MERMAID TAVERN 

Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 
Have ye tippled drink more fine 
Than mine host's Canary wine ? 
Or are fruits of Paradise 
Sweeter than those dainty pies 
Of venison ? O generous food ! 
Drest as though bold Robin Hood 
Would, with his Maid Marian, 
Sup and bowse from horn and can. 

I have heard that on a day 
Mine host's sign-board flew away 
Nobody knew whither, till 
An astrologer's old quill 
To a sheepskin gave the story, 
Said he saw you in your glory, 
Underneath a new-old sign 
Sipping beverage divine, 
And pledging with contented smack 
The Mermaid in the Zodiac. 

Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 



John Keats 



319 



Nofeem&er fye jFtftemtij Wil B^T r 



ODE WRITTEN IN 1746 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 
By all their country's wishes blest ! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung, 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung : 
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; 
And Freedom shall awhile repair 
To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 

William Collins 



ON THE LIFE -MASK OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN 

This bronze doth keep the very form and mould 
Of our great martyr's face. Yes, this is he : 
That brow all wisdom, all benignity ; 

That human, humourous mouth ; those cheeks that hold 

Like some harsh landscape all the summer's gold ; 
That spirit fit for sorrow, as the sea 
For storms to beat on ; the lone agony 

Those silent, patient lips too well foretold. 

Yes, this is he who ruled a world of men 
As might some prophet of the elder day, — 
Brooding above the tempest and the fray 

With deep-eyed thought and more than mortal ken. 
A power was his beyond the touch of art 
Or armed strength : his pure and mighty heart. 

Richard Watson Gilder 



320 



Nobem&er tlje Sixteenth 



FOLDING THE FLOCKS 

Shepherds all, and maidens fair, 

Fold your flocks up ; for the air 

'Gins to thicken, and the sun 

Already his great course hath run. 

See the dewdrops, how they kiss 

Every little flower that is; 

Hanging on their velvet heads, 

Like a string of crystal beads. 

See the heavy clouds low falling 

And bright Hesperus down calling 

The dead night from underground ; 

At whose rising, mists unsound, 

Damps and vapours, fly apace, 

And hover o'er the smiling face 

Of these pastures; where they come, 

Striking dead both bud and bloom. 

Therefore from such danger lock 

Every one his loved flock ; 

And let your dogs lie loose without, 

Lest the wolf come as a scout 

From the mountain, and, ere day, 

Bear a lamb or kid away ; 

Or the crafty, thievish fox, 

Break upon your simple flocks. 

To secure yourself from these, 

Be not too secure in ease ; 

So shall you good shepherds prove, 

And deserve your master's love. 

Now, good night ! may sweetest slumbers 

And soft silence fall in numbers 

On your eyelids. So farewell : 

Thus I end my evening knell. 

Beaumont and Fletcher 



321 



Nobemfcer ttre Sebottemtfj 



LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW 

My love he built me a bonnie bower, 
And clad it a' wi' lily flower ; 
A brawer bower ye ne'er did see, 
Than my true-love he built for me. 

There came a man, by middle day, 
He spied his sport, and went away; 
And brought the king that very night, 
Who brake my bower, and slew my knight. 

He slew my knight, to me sae dear ; 
He slew my knight, and poin'd his gear : 
My servants all for life did flee, 
And left me in extremitie. 

I sewed his sheet, making my mane ; 
I watched the corpse mysell alane ; 
I watched his body night and day ; 
No living creature came that way. 

I took his body on my back, 

And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat; 

I digged a grave, and laid him in, 

And happed him with the sod sae green. 

But think na ye my heart was sair, 
When I laid the mouP on his yellow hair? 
O, think na ye my heart was wae, 
When I turned about, away to gae ? 

Nae living man I'll love again, 
Since that my lively knight is slain; 
Wi' ae lock o' his yellow hair 
I'll chain my heart for evermair. 



Anon 



322 



Nobemtor tfje lEtgljteentij 



REMEMBER OR FORGET 

I sat beside the streamlet, 

I watch'd the water flow, 
As we together watch'd it 

One little year ago : 
The soft rain patter'd on the leaves, 

The April grass was wet. 
Ah ! folly to remember ; 

'Tis wiser to forget. 

The nightingales made vocal 

June's palace pav'd with gold ; 
I watch'd the rose you gave me 

Its warm red heart unfold ; 
But breath of rose and bird's song 

Were fraught with wild regret. 
'Tis madness to remember; 

'Twere wisdom to forget. 

I stood among the gold corn, 

Alas ! no more, I knew, 
To gather gleaner's measure 

Of the love that fell from you. 
For me, no gracious harvest — 

Would God we ne'er had met ! 
'Tis hard, Love, to remember, but 

'Tis harder to forget. 

The stieamlet now is frozen, 

The nightingales are fled, 
The cornfields are deserted, 

And every rose is dead. 
I sit beside my lonely fire, 

And pray for wisdom yet : 
For calmness to remember, 

Or courage to forget. 



Hamilton Aide 



323 



Nobemier tfje Nittetemtlj 



THE LONG WHITE SEAM 

As I came round the harbour buoy, 

The lights began to gleam, 
No wave the land-lock'd water stirr'd, 

The crags were white as cream ; 
And I mark'd my love by candlelight 
Sewing her long white seam. 

It's aye sewing ashore, my dear, 

Watch and steer at sea, 
It's reef and furl, and haul the line, 
Set sail and think of thee. 

I climb'd to reach her cottage door ; 

O sweetly my love sings ! 
Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth, 

My soul to meet it springs 
As the shining water leap'd of old, 
When stirr'd by angel wings. 
Aye longing to list anew, 

Awake and in my dream, 
But never a song she sang like this, 
Sewing her long white seam. 

Fair fall the lights, the harbour lights, 

That brought me in to thee, 
And peace drop down on that low roof 

For the sight that I did see, 
And the voice, my dear, that rang so clear 
All for the love of me. 

For O, for O, with brows bent low 
By the candle's nickering gleam, 
Her wedding-gown it was she wrought, 
Sewing the long white seam. 

Jean Ingelow 



324 



Thom«chatterton, Nobemto tije Efomtieti) 



HYMN TO DARKNESS 

Hail thou most sacred venerable thing ! 

What Muse is worthy thee to sing ? 
Thee, from whose pregnant universal womb 
All things, ev'n Light, thy rival, first did come. 
What dares he not attempt that sings of thee, 

Thou first and greatest mystery ? 
Who can the secrets of thy essence tell ? 
Thou, like the light of God, art inaccessible. 

Before great Love this monument did raise, 

This ample theatre of praise ; 
Before the folding circles of the sky 
Were tuned by Him, Who is all harmony ; 
Before the morning Stars their hymn began, 

Before the council held for man, 
Before the birth of either time or place, 
Thou reign'st unquestion'd monarch in the empty space. 

Thy native lot thou didst to Light resign, 

But still half of the globe is thine. 
Here with a quiet, but yet awful hand, 
Like the best emperors thou dost command. 
To thee the stars above their brightness owe, 

And mortals their repose below : 
To thy protection fear and sorrow flee, 
And those that weary are of light, find rest in thee. 

John Norris 



325 



Nobem&er tije Stoent^first Bryan ZS%l rocter ' 



LINES 

Love within the lover's breast 
Burns like Hesper in the West, 
O'er the ashes of the sun, 
Till the day and night are done ; 
Then, when dawn drives up his car — 
Lo ! it is the morning star. 

Love ! thy love pours down on mine, 
As the sunlight on the vine, 
As the snow rill on the vale, 
As the salt breeze on the sail ; 
As the song unto the bird 
On my lips thy name is heard. 

As a dewdrop on the rose 

In thy heart my passion glows ; 

As a skylark to the sky, 

Up into thy breast I fly ; 

As a sea-shell of the sea 

Ever shall I sing of thee. 

George Meredith 



326 



Nofam&er tlje 3ttoentgs«cori& 



HOLY THURSDAY 

'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, 
Came children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and 

green ; 
Gray-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white 

as snow, 
Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters 

flow. 

O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London 

town ! 
Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own ; 
The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, 
Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent 

hands. 

Now, like a mighty wind, they raise to heaven the voice of 

song, 
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among ; 
Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor. 
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door. 

William Blake 



327 



November tlje 2Clxientg^tl)trti 



THE WHITE ISLAND; OR, PLACE OF THE 
BLEST 

In this world, the Isle of Dreams, 
While we sit by sorrow's streams. 
Tears and terrors are our themes, 

Reciting ; 
But when once from hence we fly, 
More and more approaching nigh 
Unto young eternity, 

Uniting 
In that whiter Island, where 
Things are evermore sincere — 
Candour here and lustre there 

Delighting : — 
There no monstrous fancies shall 
Out of hell an horror call, 
To create, or cause at all, 

Affrighting ; 
There in calm and cooling sleep 
We our eyes shall never steep, 
But eternal watch shall keep, 

Attending 
Pleasures, such as shall pursue 
Me immortalised, and you — 
And fresh joys, as never too 

Have ending. 

Robert Herrick 



328 



Nobemfar tfje Etoottg^ourtl) 



THE BEGGAR MAID 

Her arms across her breast she laid ; 

She was more fair than words can say: 
Bare-footed came the beggar maid 

Before the king Cophetua. 
In robe and crown the king stept down, 

To meet and greet her on her way ; 
It is no wonder," said the lords, 
" She is more beautiful than day." 

As shines the moon in clouded skies, 

She in her poor attire was seen : 
One praised her ankles, one her eyes, 

One her dark hair and lovesome mien. 
So sweet a face, such angel grace, 

In all that land had never been : 
Cophetua sware a royal oath : 
" This beggar maid shall be my queen ! " 

Alfred Tennyson 



NATURAL COMPARISONS WITH PERFECT 
LOVE 

The lowest trees have tops ; the ant her gall ; 

The fly her spleen ; the little sparks their heat : 
The slender hairs cast shadows, though but small ; 

And bees have stings, although they be not great. 
Seas have their surges, so have shallow springs ; 
And love is love, in beggars as in kings. 

Where rivers smoothest run, deep are the fords ; 

The dial stirs, yet none perceives it move ; 
The firmest faith is in the fewest words; 

The turtles cannot sing, and yet they love. 
True hearts have eyes, and ears, no tongues to speak ; 
They hear, and see, and sigh ; and then they break. 

Anon 



329 



Nofaemier ttre Etomtg^fifti) 



CONFIDED 

Another lamb, O Lamb of God, behold, 

Within this quiet fold, 

Among Thy Father's sheep 

I lay to sleep ! 

A heart that never for a night did rest 

Beyond its mother's breast. 

Lord, keep it close to Thee, 

Lest waking it should bleat and pine for me ! 

John Banister Tabb 



COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM 

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, 
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still 

here; 
Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, 
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. 

Oh ! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same 
Through joy and through torment, through glory and 

shame ? 
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, 
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. 

Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss, 
And thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this, 
Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, 
And shield thee, and save thee, — or perish there too ! 

Thomas Moore 



330 



Thomas Moore 
1779-1852 



Nobonber tije Stoentg^ixti) 



THE DESERTED HOUSE 

Life and Thought have gone away- 
Side by side, 
Leaving door and windows wide : 

Careless tenants they ! 

All within is dark as night : 
In the windows is no light ; 
And no murmur at the door, 
So frequent on its hinge before. 

Close the door, the shutters close, 

Or thro' the windows we shall see 
The nakedness and vacancy 

Of the dark deserted house. 

Come away : no more of mirth 

Is here or merry-making sound. 

The house was builded of the earth, 
And shall fall again to ground. 

Come away : for Life and Thought 
Here no longer dwell ; 
But in a city glorious — 
A great and distant city — have bought 

A mansion incorruptible. 
Would they could have stay'd with us ! 

Alfred Tennyson 



33* 



Nofomfar tije Stoentsj^ebenti) 



AT HER WINDOW 

Beating heart ! we come again 

Where my Love reposes : 
This is Mabel's window-pane ; 

These are Mabel's roses. 

Is she nested ? Does she kneel 

In the twilight stilly ; 
Lily-clad from throat to heel, 

She, my virgin lily ? 

Soon the wan, the wistful stars, 

Fading, will forsake her ; 
Elves of light, on beamy bars, 

Whisper then, and wake her. 

Let this friendly pebble plead 

At her flowery grating ; 
If she hear me will she heed? 

Mabel, I am waiting / 

Mabel will be deck'd anon, 

Zoned in bride's apparel ; 
Happy zone ! — oh hark to yon 

Passion-shaken carol ! 

Sing thy song, thou tranced thrush, 

Pipe thy best, thy clearest ; — 
Hush, her lattice moves, oh hush — 

Dearest Mabel / — dearest . . . 

Frederick Locker- Lampson 



332 



^omxtsf 6 ' Nobemto tlje &fon%etgi)tfj 



THE HIGHER PANTHEISM 

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills, and the 

plains — 
Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns? 

Is not the Vision He ? tho' He be not that which He seems ? 
Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in 
dreams ? 

Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and limb, 
Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from Him ? 

Dark is the world to thee : thyself art the reason why ; 
For is He not all but that which has power to feel " I am I ? " 

Glory about thee, without thee ; and thou fulfillest thy doom 
Making Him broken gleams, and a stifled splendour and 
gloom. 

Speak to Him thou for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit 

can meet — 
Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet. 

God is law, say the wise ; O Soul, and let us rejoice, 
For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His voice. 

Law is God, say some : no God at all, says the fool ; 
For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent in a 
pool ; 

And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man cannot 

see ; 
But if we could see and hear, this Vision — were it not He ? 

Alfred Tennyson 



333 



Nofconta tfje ®taentg=mntfj 



LOVE IN THE WINDS 

When I am standing on a mountain crest, 
Or hold the tiller in the dashing spray, 
My love of you leaps foaming in my breast, 
Shouts with the winds and sweeps to their foray ; 
My heart bounds with the horses of the sea, 
And plunges in the wild ride of the night, 
Flaunts in the teeth of tempest the large glee 
That rides out Fate and welcomes gods to fight. 
Ho, love, I laugh aloud for love of you, 
Glad that our love is fellow to rough weather, — 
No fretful orchid hothoused from the dew, 
But hale and hardy as the highland heather, 
Rejoicing in the wind that stings and thrills, 
Comrade of ocean, playmate of the hills. 

Richard Hovey 



THE WIDOW'S MITE 

A widow — she had only one ! 
A puny and decrepit son ; 

But, day and night, 
Though fretful oft, and weak and small, 
A loving child, he was her all — 

The Widow's Mite. 

The Widow's Mite, — ay, so sustained, 
She battled onward, nor complained, 

Though friends were fewer : 
And while she toiled for daily fare, 
A little crutch upon the stair 

Was music to her. 

I saw her then, — and now I see 
That, though resigned and cheerful, she 

Has sorrowed much : 
She has, — He gave it tenderly, — 
Much faith ; and, carefully laid by, 
A little crutch. 

Frederick Locker-Lampson 
334 



^nSI^Bo™^ 54 Nofwm&er fte STijirttettj 



BREATHES THERE THE MAN 

Breathes there the man with soul so dead 
Who never to himself hath said, 
" This is my own, my native land ! " 
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, 
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd 

From wandering on a foreign strand ! 
If such there breathe, go, mark him well ; 
For him no minstrel raptures swell ; 
High though his titles, proud his name, 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ; 
Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
The wretch, concentred all in self, 
Living, shall forfeit fair renown, 
And, doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust from whence he sprung, 
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung. 

Sir Walter Scott 



WHEN I WAS ONE AND TWENTY 

When I was one-and-twenty 

I heard a wise man say, 
" Give crowns and pounds and guineas 

But not your heart away ; 
Give pearls away and rubies 

But keep your fancy free." 
But I was one-and-twenty, 

No use to talk to me. 

When I was one-and-twenty 
I heard him say again, 
" The heart out of the bosom 
Was never given in vain ; 
'Tis paid with sighs a plenty 
And sold for endless rue." 
And I am two-and-twenty, 
And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true. 

A. E. Housman 
335 



©ecemfar tjje JFtrst 



RULES AND LESSONS 

When first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave 

To do the like ; our bodies but forerun 

The spirit's duty. True hearts spread, and heave 

Unto their God, as flowers do to the sun. 

Give Him thy first thoughts then ; so shalt thou keep 
Him company all day, and in Him sleep. 

Yet never sleep the sun up ; — Prayer should 
Dawn with the day. There are set, awful hours 
'Twixt Heaven, and us. The manna was not good 
After sun-rising ; fair-day sullies flowers. 

Rise to prevent the sun ; sleep doth sins glut, 

And Heaven's gate opens, when this world's is shut. 

Walk with thy fellow creatures : note the hush 
And whispers amongst them. There's not a spring, 
Or leaf but hath his morning-hymn ; Each bush 
And oak doth know I AM. Canst thou not sing ? 
O leave thy cares and follies ! go this way, 
And thou art sure to prosper all the day. 

To heighten thy devotions, and keep low 
All mutinous thoughts, what business e'er thou hast, 
Observe God in His works ; here fountains flow, 
Birds sing, beasts feed, fish leap, and th' earth stands 
fast; 
Above are restless motions, running lights, 
Vast circling azure, giddy clouds, days, nights. 

When Seasons change, then lay before thine eyes 
His wondrous method ; mark the various scenes 
In heaven ; hail, thunder, rainbows, snow, and ice, 
Calms, tempests, light, and darkness, by His means ; 
Thou canst not miss His praise ; each tree, herb, flower 
Are shadows of His wisdom, and His power. 

Henry Vaughan 



336 



IJecemfcer tije Secontr 



I'LL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE 

My dear and only Love, I pray 

That little world of thee 
Be govern'd by no other sway 

Than purest monarchy ; 
For if confusion have a part 

(Which virtuous souls abhor), 
And hold a synod in thine heart, 

I'll never love thee more. 

Like Alexander I will reign, 

And I will reign alone ; 
My thoughts did evermore disdain 

A rival on my throne. 
He either fears his fate too much, 

Or his deserts are small, 
That dares not put it to the touch, 

To gain or lose it all. 

And in the empire of thine heart, 

Where I should solely be, 
If others do pretend a part 

Or dare to vie with me, 
Or if Committees thou erect, 

And go on such a score, 
I'll laugh and sing at thy neglect, 

And never love thee more. 

But if thou wilt prove faithful then, 

And constant of thy word, 
I'll make thee glorious by my pen 

And famous by my sword ; 
I'll serve thee in such noble ways 

Was never heard before ; 
I'll crown and deck thee all with bays, 

And love thee more and more. 

James Graham, Marquis of Montrose 



337 



December tfje Eijirfc 



ABSENCE 

Absence, hear thou this protestation 
Against thy strength, 
Distance, and length ; 
Do what thou canst for alteration : 

For hearts of truest mettle 
Absence doth join, and Time doth settle. 

Who loves a mistress of such quality, 
His mind hath found 
Affection's ground 
Beyond time, place, and all mortality. 

To hearts that cannot vary 
Absence is present, Time doth tarry. 

By absence this good means I gain, 
That I can catch her, 
Where none can watch her, 

In some close corner of my brain : 
There I embrace and kiss her ; 

And so I both enjoy and miss her. 



John Donne 



IN ABSENCE 



All that thou art not, makes not up the sum 
Of what thou art, beloved, unto me : 

All other voices, wanting thine, are dumb ; 
All vision, in thine absence, vacancy. 

John Banister Tabb 



338 



Becemter tfje JFourtf) 



O, FAIN WOULD I 

O, fain would I, before I die, 

Bequeath to thee a legacy, 

That thou may'st say, when I am gone, 

None had my heart but thee alone ! 

Had I as many hearts as hairs, 

As many lives as lovers' fears, 

As many lives as years have hours, 

They all and only should be yours ! 

Dearest, before you condescend 

To entertain a bosom-friend, 

Be sure you know your servant well 

Before your liberty you sell: 

For love's a fire in young and old, 

'Tis sometimes hot and sometimes cold, 

And now you know that, when they please, 

They can be sick of love's disease. 

Then wisely choose a friend that may 
Last for an age, and not a day, 
Who loves thee not for lip or eye, 
But for thy mutual sympathy ! 
Let such a friend thy heart engage, 
For he will comfort thee in age, 
And kiss thy wrinkled, furrowed brow 
With as much joy as I do now. 

Anon 



339 



Wzttmbtx tije Mfy chri,ti,,a gs^i RoMetti » 



BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 

Thou art not so unkind 

As man's ingratitude ; 

Thy tooth is not so keen 

Because thou art not seen, 

Although thy breath be rude. 
Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho ! unto the green holly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : 

Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! 

This life is most jolly. 

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 

Thou dost not bite so nigh 

As benefits forgot : 

Though thou the waters warp, 

Thy sting is not so sharp 

As friend remember'd not. 
Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho'! unto the green holly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : 

Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! 

This life is most jolly. 

William Shakespeare 



34o 



©ecemfar tfje Sixtfj 



I DID BUT LOOK 

I did but look and love awhile, 

'Twas but for one half -hour : 
Then to resist I had no will, 

And now I have no power. 

To sigh, and wish, is all my ease : 

Sighs, which do heat impart 
Enough to melt the coldest ice, 

Yet cannot warm your heart. 

O ! would your pity give my heart 

One corner of your breast, 
'Twould learn of yours the winning art, 

And quickly steal the rest ! 

Thomas Otway 



SUCH A STARVED BANK OF MOSS 

Such a starved bank of moss 

Till, that May-morn, 
Blue ran the flash across: 

Violets were born ! 

Sky — what a scowl of cloud, 

Till, near and far, 
Ray on ray split the shroud : 

Splendid, a star ! 

World — how it walled about 

Life with disgrace, 
Till God's own smile came out : 

That was thy face ! 

Robert Browning 



34> 



Mtttmbtt tfje Sefontfj ^"Sn^f am ' 



CHARLIE HE'S MY DARLING 

'Twas on a Monday morning 

Richt early in the year, 
That Charlie cam' to our toun, 

The Young Chevalier. 

An* Charlie he's my darling \ 

My darling, my darling; 
Charlie he's my darling, 

The Young Chevalier 7 

As he was walking up the street, 

The city for to view, 
Oh, there he spied a bonnie lass 

The window looking through. 

Sae licht's he jimped up the stair, 

An' tirled at the pin ; 
And wha sae ready as hersel' 

To let the laddie in ? 

He set his Jenny on his knee, 

A' in his Highland dress ; 
For brawly weel he kenn'd the way 

To please a bonnie lass. 

It's up yon heathery mountain, 

An' down yon scroggy glen, 
We daurna gang a-milking, 

For Charlie an' his men. 

An y Charlie he's my darling, 

My darling, my darling; 
Charlie he's my darling, 

The Young Chevalier / 

Robert Burns 



342 



©ecemfar rtje 3Etflljti) 



HOHENLINDEN 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow ; 
And dark ac winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight, 
When the drum beat at dead of night 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast array'd 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
And furious every charger neigh'd 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven ; 
Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven; 
And louder than the bolts of Heaven 
Far flash'd the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow ; 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'Tis morn ; but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye Brave 
Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, "Munich ! all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy chivalry ! 

Few, few shall part, where many meet! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 

Thomas Campbell 

343 



mtttmbtx tije Nintfj J BSn M x2S n * 

CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES 

CHORUS 

Co? the y owes to the knowes, 
Co* them where the heather grows, 
Co 1 them where the burnie rowes, 
My bonnie dearie. 

Hark, the mavis' e'ening sang 
Sounding Clouden's woods amang; 
Then a-faulding let us gang, 
My bonnie dearie. 

We'll gae down by Clouden side, 

Thro' the hazels, spreading wide 

O'er the waves that sweetly glide 

To the moon sae clearly. 

Yonder Clouden's silent towers, 
Where, at moonshine's midnight hours, 
O'er the dewy bending flowers, 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear : 
Thou'rt to Love and Heav'n sae dear, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near, 
My bonnie dearie. 

Fair and lovely as thou art, 
Thou hast stown my very heart; 
I can die — but canna part, 
My bonnie dearie. 

While waters wimple to the sea ; 
While day blinks in the lift s&e hie ; 
Till clay-cauld death sail blin' my e'e, 
Ye sail be my dearie. 
Ca? the, etc. 

Robert Burns 



344 



%obert "Bums 
i 759-1 796 



JBecemfar tfje ftentf) 



ROSALINE 

Like to the clear in highest sphere 
Where all imperial glory shines, 
Of selfsame colour is her hair 
Whether unfolded, or in twines : 

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! 
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, 
Resembling heaven by every wink ; 
The Gods do fear whenas they glow, 
And I do tremble when I think 

Heigh ho, would she were mine ! 

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud 
That beautifies Aurora's face, 
Or like the silver crimson shroud 
That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace ; 

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! 
Her lips are like two budded roses 
Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh, 
Within which bounds she balm encloses 
Apt to entice a deity : 

Heigh ho, would she were mine ! 

With orient pearl, with ruby red, 
With marble white, with sapphire blue 
Her body every way is fed, 
Yet soft in touch and sweet in view : 

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! 
Nature herself her shape admires ; 
The Gods are wounded in her sight ; 
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires 
And at her eyes his brand doth light : 

Heigh ho, would she were mine ! 

Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan 
The absence of fair Rosaline, 
Since for a fair there's fairer none, 
Nor for her virtues so divine : 
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline : 
Heigh ho, my heart ! would God that she were mine ! 

Thomas Lodge 

345 



Btttmitx tlje ISlefaenttj 



THE CAVALIER'S SONG 

A steed ! a steed of matchless speed, 

A sword of metal keen ! 
All else to noble hearts is dross, 

All else on earth is mean. 
The neighing of the war-horse proud, 

The rolling of the drum, 
The clangour of the trumpet loud, 

Be sounds from heaven that come ; 
And oh ! the thundering press of knights, 

Whenas their war-cries swell, 
May tole from heaven an angel bright, 

And rouse a fiend from hell. 

Then mount ! then mount, brave gallants all, 

And don your helms amain ; 
Death's couriers, fame and honour, call 

Us to the field again. 
No shrewish fears shall fill our eye 

When the sword-hilt's in our hand — 
Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sigh 

For the fairest of the land ; 
Let piping swain, and craven wight, 

Thus weep and puling cry ; 
Our business is like men to fight, 

And hero-like to die ! 

William Motherwell 



346 



RQ Died B sr g ' mtttmbtx fyt ftfoeiftti 



PROSPICE 

Fear death ? — to feel the fog in my throat, 

The mist in my face, 
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote 

I am nearing the place, 
The power of the night, the press of the storm, 

The post of the foe ; 
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, 

Yet the strong man must go : 
For the journey is done and the summit attain'd, 

And the barriers fall, 
Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gain'd 

The reward of it all. 
I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more, 

The best and the last ! 
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, 

And bade me creep past. 
No ! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers 

The heroes of old, 
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears 

Of pain, darkness, and cold. 
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, 

The black minute's at end, 
And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, 

Shall dwindle, shall blend, 
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, 

Then a light, then thy breast, 
O thou soul of my soul ! I shall clasp thee again, 

And with God be the rest ! 

Robert Browning 



347 



mtttraitx tfje ffl%fcteenft w g3^ r SSS a A2rS5 8s 



PRAYER 

Be not afraid to pray — to pray is right. 

Pray, if thou canst, with hope ; but ever pray, 

Though hope be weak, or sick with long delay ; 
Pray in the darkness, if there be no light. 
Far is the time, remote from human sight, 

When war and discord on the earth shall cease ; 

Yet every prayer for universal peace 
Avails the blessed time to expedite. 
Whate'er is good to wish, ask that of Heaven, 

Though it be what thou canst not hope to see : 
Pray to be perfect, though material leaven 

Forbid the spirit so on earth to be ; 
But if for any wish thou darest not pray, 
Then pray to God to cast that wish away. 

Hartley Coleridge 



TO AMERICA 

What, cringe to Europe ! Band it all in one, 

Stilt its decrepit strength, renew its age, 

Wipe out its debts, contract a loan to wage 
Its venal battles, — and, by yon bright sun, 
Our God is false, and liberty undone, 

If slaves have power to win your heritage ! 

Look on your country, God's appointed stage, 
Where man's vast mind its boundless course shall run : 
For that it was your stormy coast He spread — 

A fear in winter ; girded you about 
With granite hills, and made you strong and dread. 

Let him who fears before the foemen shout, 
Or gives an inch before a vein has bled, 

Turn on himself, and let the traitor out ! 

George Henry Boker 



348 



WtttxaUx tfje iFourteentfj 



DIRGE FOR THE YEAR 

Orphan hours, the year is dead, 
Come and sigh, come and weep ! 

Merry hours, smile instead, 
For the year is but asleep. 

See, it smiles as it is sleeping, 

Mocking your untimely weeping. 

As an earthquake rocks a corse 

In its coffin in the clay, 
So White Winter, that rough nurse, 

Rocks the death-cold year to-day ; 
Solemn hours ! wail aloud 
For your mother in her shroud. 

As the wild air stirs and sways 
The tree-swung cradle of a child, 

So the breath of these rude days 

Rocks the year : — be calm and mild, 

Trembling hours, she will arise 

With new love within her eyes. 

January gray is here, 

Like a sexton by her grave ; 
February bears the bier, 

March with grief doth howl and rave, 
And April weeps — but, O, ye hours, 
Follow with May's fairest flowers ! 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 



349 



Mttmbtx fyz jFtftemtfj 



THE NIGHT PIECE 

TO JULIA 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 
The shooting-stars attend thee, 

And the elves also, 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will-o'-th'-wisp mislight thee, 
Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee ; 

But on, on thy way, 

Not making a stay, 
Since ghost there's none to affright thee ! 

Let not the dark thee cumber ; 

What though the moon does slumber? 

The stars of the night 

Will lend thee their light, 
Like tapers clear, without number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
Thus, thus to come unto me ; 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet, 
My soul I'll pour into thee ! 

Robert Herrick 



35° 



Bttttribtt tije Sixteenth 



O SWALLOW, SWALLOW 

O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, 
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, 
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. 

O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, 
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
And dark and true and tender is the North. 

O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, 
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 

O were I thou that she might take me in, 
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 

Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, 
Delaying as the tender ash delays 
To clothe herself, when all the woods are green ? 

O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown : 
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, 
But in the North long since my nest is made. 

O tell her, brief is life, but love is long, 
And brief the sun of summer in the North, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 

O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, 
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, 
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee. 

Alfred Tennyson 



35* 



mtttmitt tije Sebenteottfj John Gr C e iy hittier - 



O MISTRESS MINE 

O Mistress mine, where are you roaming? 
O stay and hear ! your true-love's coming 

That can sing both high and low ; 
Trip no further, pretty sweeting, 
Journeys end in lovers meeting — 

Every wise man's son doth know. 

What is love ? 'tis not hereafter ; 
Present mirth hath present laughter ; 

What's to come is still unsure : 
In delay there lies no plenty, — 
Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty, 

Youth's a stuff will not endure. 

William Shakespeare 



ON FAME 

Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy 

To those who woo her with too slavish knees, 
But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy, 

And dotes the more upon a heart at ease ; 
She is a Gipsy, — will not speak to those 

Who have not learnt to be content without her ; 
A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper'd close, 

Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her ; 
A very Gipsy is she, Nilus-born, 

Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar ; 
Ye lovesick Bards ! repay her scorn for scorn ; 

Ye Artists lovelorn ! madmen that ye are ! 
Make your best bow to her and bid adieu, 
Then, if she likes it, she will follow you. 

John Keats 



35 2 



^Bom^of 7 ' ©seemlier tlje ISisijteentlj 



SUPPLICATION 

Father, I know that all my life 

Is portioned out for me, 
And the changes that will surely come 

I do not fear to see ; 
But I ask Thee for a present mind 

Intent on pleasing Thee. 

I ask Thee for a thoughtful love, 

Through constant watching wise, 

To meet the glad with joyful smiles, 
And to wipe the weeping eyes ; 

And a heart at leisure from itself, 
To soothe and sympathize. 

I would not have the restless will 

That hurries to and fro, 
Seeking for some great thing to do, 

Or secret thing to know ; 
I would be treated as a child, 

And guided where I go. 

Wherever in the world I am, 

In whatsoe'er estate, 
I have a fellowship with hearts 

To keep and cultivate ; 
And a work of lowly love to do, 

For the Lord on whom I wait. 

So I ask Thee for the daily strength, 

To none that ask denied, 
And a mind to blend with outward life, 

While keeping at Thy side ; 
Content to fill a little space, 

If Thou be glorified. 

Anna Laetitia Waring 



353 



JBtttmitv tfje Nineteen^ 



CHILD OF A DAY 

Child of a day, thou knowest not 
The tears that overflow thine urn, 

The gushing eyes that read thy lot, 
Nor, if thou knewest, could'st return ! 

And why the wish ! the pure and blest, 
Watch, like thy mother, o'er thy sleep ; 

O peaceful night ! O envied rest ! 
Thou wilt not ever see her weep. 

Walter Savage Landor 



A WIDOW BIRD 

A widow bird sat mourning for her love 

Upon a wintry bough ; 
The frozen wind crept on above, 

The freezing stream below. 

There was no leaf upon the forest bare, 

No flower upon the ground, 
And little motion in the air 

Except the mill-wheel's sound. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 



354 



Btttmhtx tfje fttoentirti) 



LEAF AFTER LEAF 

Leaf after leaf drops off, flower after flower, 
Some in the chill, some in the warmer hour : 
Alike they flourish and alike they fall, 
And Earth who nourisht them receives them all. 
Should we, her wiser sons, be less content 
To sink into her lap when life is spent ? 

Walter Savage Landor 



THE APPROACH OF AGE 

Let Youth, who never rests, run by ; 

But should each Grace desert the Muse ? 
Should all that once hath charmed us, fly 

At heavy Age's creaking shoes ? 
The titter of light Days I hear 

To see so strange a figure come : 
Laugh on, light Days, and never fear ; 

He passes you ; he seeks the tomb. 

Walter Savage Landor 



355 



Btctmbtt tlje Efoet%fir$t 



THE CHANGELESS 

It fortifies my soul to know 

That, though I perish, Truth is so ; 

That, howsoe'er I stray and range, 

Whate'er I do, Thou dost not change. 

I steadier step when I recall 

That, if I slip, Thou dost not fall. 

Arthur Hugh Clough 



INVICTUS 

Out of the night that covers me, 
Black as the pit from pole to pole, 

I thank whatever gods may be 
For my unconquerable soul. 

In the fell clutch of circumstance 
I have not winced nor cried aloud; 

Under the bludgeonings of chance 
My head is bloody, but unbowed. 

Beyond this place of wrath and tears 
Looms but the horror of the shade, 

And yet the menace of the years 
Finds and shall find me unafraid. 

It matters not how strait the gate, 

How charged with punishments the scroll, 

I am the master of my fate, 
I am the captain of my soul. 

William Ernest Henley 



356 



J 



Btttmhtx tije Etoentg=seconti 



RULE BRITANNIA 

When Britain first at Heaven's command 

Arose from out the azure main, 
This was the charter of her land, 

And guardian angels sung the strain : 
Rule, Britannia ! Britannia rules the waves ! 
Britons never shall be slaves. 

The nations not so blest as thee 

Must in their turn to tyrants fall, 
Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free 

The dread and envy of them all. 

Still more majestic shalt thou rise, 

More dreadful from each foreign stroke ; 

As the loud blast that tears the skies 
Serves but to root thy native oak. 

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame ; 

All their attempts to bend thee down 
Will but arouse thy generous flame, 

And work their woe and thy renown. 

To thee belongs the rural reign ; 

Thy cities shall with commerce shine; 
All thine shall be the subject main, 

And every shore it circles thine ! 

The Muses, still with Freedom found, 

Shall to thy happy coast repair ; 
Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd 
And manly hearts to guard the fair : — 
Rule, Britannia ! Britannia rules the waves ! 
Britons never shall be slaves ! 

James Thomson 



357 



Wtttmbtv tfje 2ni3aents=tijtrU 



ST. AGNES' EVE 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows 

Are sparkling to the moon : 
My breath to heaven like vapour goes : 

May my soul follow soon ! 
The shadows of the convent-towers 

Slant down the snowy sward, 
Still creeping with the creeping hours 

That lead me to my Lord : 
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As are the frosty skies, 
Or this first snowdrop of the year 

That in my bosom lies. 

As these white robes are soil'd and dark 

To yonder shining ground ; 
As this pale taper's earthly spark, 

To yonder argent round ; 
So shows my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee ; 
So in mine earthly house I am, 

To that I hope to be. 
Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far, 

Thro' all yon starlight keen, 
Draw me, Thy bride, a glittering star, 

In raiment white and clean. 

He lifts me to the golden doors ; 

The flashes come and go ; 
All heaven bursts her starry floors, 

And strows her lights below, 
And deepens on and up ! the gates 

Roll back, and far within 
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, 

To make me pure of sin. 
The sabbaths of Eternity, 

One sabbath deep and wide — 
A light upon the shining sea — 

The Bridegroom with his bride ! 

Alfred Tennyson 

358 



Src^Bo^ 1 /; 2 Eecemter tije Ktomt&itnxxfy 



PREPARATIONS 

Yet if His Majesty, our sovereign lord, 

Should of his own accord 

Friendly himself invite, 

And say, " I'll be your guest to-morrow night," 

How should w.e stir ourselves, call and command 

All hands to work ! " Let no man idle stand ! 

" Set me fine Spanish tables in the hall ; 
See they be fitted all ; 
Let there be room to eat 
And order taken that there want no meat. 
See every scone and candlestick made bright, 
That without tapers they may give a light. 

" Look to the presence : are the carpets spread, 
The dazie o'er the head, 
The cushions in the chairs, 
And all the candles lighted on the stairs ? 
Perfume the chambers, and in any case 
Let each man give attendance in his place ! " 

Thus, if a king were coming, would we do ; 

And 'twere good reason, too ; 

For 'tis a duteous thing 

To show all honour to an earthly king, 

And after all our travail and our cost, 

So he be pleased, to think no labour lost. 

But at the coming of the King of Heaven 

All's set at six and seven ; 

We wallow in our sin, 

Christ cannot find a chamber in the inn. 

We entertain Him always like a stranger, 

And, as at first, still lodge Him in the manger. 

Christ Church MS. {About 1600) 



359 



Btttmbtt tfje Wwtnt&ffify Wil Bo^^ 8 ' 



THE BURNING BABE 

As I in hoary winter's night 

Stood shivering in the snow, 
Surprised I was with sudden heat 

Which made my heart to glow ; 
And lifting up a fearful eye 

To view what fire was near, 
A pretty babe all burning bright 

Did in the air appear ; 
Who, scorched with excessive heat, 

Such floods of tears did shed, 
As though His floods should quench His 
flames, 

Which with His tears were bred: 
" Alas ! " quoth He, " but newly born 

In fiery heats I fry, 
Yet none approach to warm their hearts 

Or feel my fire but I ! 

" My faultless breast the furnace is ; 

The fuel, wounding thorns ; 
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke; 

The ashes, shames and scorns ; 
The fuel Justice layeth on, 

And Mercy blows the coals, 
The metal in this furnace wrought 

Are men's defiled souls : 
For which, as now on fire I am 

To work them to their good, 
So will I melt into a bath, 

To wash them in my blood." 
With this He vanish'd out of sight 

And swiftly shrunk away, 
And straight I called unto mind 

That it was Christmas Day. 

Robert Southwell 



360 



rh B om s x?x6 y ' December ttre Etoentg^ixti) 



A MYSTICAL ECSTASY 

E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks, 

That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams, 
And having ranged and search'd a thousand nooks, 

Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames, 
Where in a greater current they conjoin : 
So I my Best-Beloved's am ; so He is mine. 

E'en so we met ; and after long pursuit, 

E'en so we join'd ; we both became entire ; 

No need for either to renew a suit, 

For I was flax and he was flames of fire : 
Our firm united souls did more than twine ; 

So I my Best-Beloved's am ; so He is mine. 

If all those glittering Monarchs that command 
The servile quarters of this earthly ball, 

Should tender, in exchange, their shares of land, 
I would not change my fortunes for them all : 
Their wealth is but a counter to my coin : 

The world's but theirs ; but my Beloved's mine. 

Francis Quarles 



COME NOT, WHEN I AM DEAD 

Come not, when I am dead, 

To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, 
To trample round my fallen head, 

And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. 
There let the wind sweep and the plover cry ; 

But thou, go by. 

Child, if it were thine error or thy crime 

I care no longer, being all unblest : 
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time, 

And I desire to rest. 
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie : 

Go by, go by. 

Alfred Tennyson 

36i 



mtttmitx tlje fttonttg^ebentl) 



Died 1834. 



SONG 

When I am dead, my dearest, 

Sing no sad songs for me; 
Plant thou no roses at my head, 

Nor shady cypress tree : 
Be the green grass above me 

With showers and dewdrops wet ; 
And if thou wilt, remember, 

And if thou wilt, forget. 

I shall not see the shadows, 

I shall not feel the rain ; 
I shall not hear the nightingale 

Sing on, as if in pain : 
And dreaming through the twilight 

That doth not rise nor set, 
Haply I may remember, 

And haply may forget. 

Christina Georgina Rossetti 



THE WANDERER 

Love comes back to his vacant dwelling — 
The old, old Love that we knew of yore ! 
We see him stand by the open door, 

With his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling. 

He makes as though in our arms repelling 
He fain would lie, as he lay before ; 

Love comes back to his vacant dwelling — 
The old, old Love which we knew of yore ! 

Ah, who shall help us from over-spelling 
That sweet forgotten, forbidden lore ! 
E'en as we doubt, in our heart once more, 
With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling, 
Love comes back to his vacant dwelling ! 

Austin Dobson 



William Wordsworth 

1770-1850 



Thomas^abingtonMacaulay, jg mmlier ^ EtoentS^tgJ)tl) 



THE CHILDLESS FATHER 

" Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away ! 
Not a soul in the village this morning will stay; 
The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds, 
And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds." 

Of coats and of jackets gray, scarlet, and green, 
On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen ; 
With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow, 
The girls on the hills made a holiday show. 

The basin of boxwood, just six months before, 
Had stood on the table at Timothy's door ; 
A coffin through Timothy's threshold had passed ; 
One child did it bear, and that child was his last. 

Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray, 
The horse and the horn, and the " hark ! hark away ! " 
Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut, 
With a leisurely motion the door of his hut. 

Perhaps to himself at that moment he said, 
" The key I must take, for my Helen is dead." 
But of this in my ears not a word did he speak, 
And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek. 

William Wordsworth 



363 



3B*cemier tije Etoentgnunti) 



Died 1894 



A BETTER RESURRECTION 

I have no wit, no words, no tears ; 

My heart within me like a stone 
Is numbed too much for hopes or fears ; 

Look right, look left, I dwell alone ; 
I lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief 

No everlasting hills I see ; 
My life is in the falling leaf : 
O Jesu, quicken me ! 

My life is like a faded leaf, 

My harvest dwindled to a husk ; 
Truly my life is void and brief 

And tedious in the barren dusk ; 
My life is like a frozen thing, 

No bud nor greenness can I see : 
Yet rise it shall, — the sap of Spring ; 
O Jesu, rise in me ! 

My life is like a broken bowl, 

A broken bowl that cannot hold 
One drop of water for my soul 

Or cordial in the searching cold ; 
Cast in the fire the perished thing, 

Melt and remold it, till it be 
A royal cup for Him my King : 
O Jesu, drink of me ! 

Christina Georgina Rossetti 



364 



December tije Ejjtrtietlj 



AT A SOLEMN MUSIC 

Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy, 
Sphere-born harmonious Sisters, Voice and Verse ! 
Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ, 
Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce ; 
And to our high-raised phantasy present 
That undisturbed Song of pure concent 
Aye sung before the sapphire-colour'd throne 

To Him that sits thereon, 
With saintly shout and solemn jubilee ; 
Where the bright Seraphim in burning row 
Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow ; 
And the Cherubic host in thousand quires 
Touch their immortal harps of golden wires, 
With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms, 

Hymns devout and holy psalms 

Singing everlastingly : 
That we on Earth, with undiscording voice 
May rightly answer that melodious noise ; 
As once we did, till disproportion^ sin 
Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din 
Broke the fair music that all creatures made 
To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd 
In perfect diapason, whilst they stood 
In first obedience, and their state of good. 
O may we soon again renew that Song, 
And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long 
To His celestial consort us unite, 
To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light ! 

John Milton 



365 



Mttzmbtt tfje STfjirts^ffrst 



NEW YEAR'S EVE 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light ; 
The year is dying in the night ; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new ; 

Ring, happy bells, across the snow ; 

The year is going, let him go ; 
Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 
For those that here we see no more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 
And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 

The civic slander and the spite ; 

Ring in the love of truth and right, 
Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease, 
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 
Ring out the thousand wars of old, 

Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free, 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 
Ring out the darkness of the land, 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

Alfred Tennyson 



366 






NOTES 



Page I. "The Noble Nature." These lines are part of a 
lengthy ode : " To the Immortal Memory and Friendship of that 
Noble Pair, Sir Lucius Cary and Sir H. Morison." 

3. " On the Castle of Chillon." The reference is to Bonni- 
vard, the Genevese, who was imprisoned during the early years 
of the seventeenth century in Chillon, on Lake Geneva. His 
only crime was his heroic defence of his country against the 
tyranny of Piedmont. 

6. " Old Age and Death." From " Verses upon His Divine 
Poesy." 

8. " John Anderson." Jo, sweetheart ; brent, smooth ; pow, 
head. 

9. " The Land o' the Leal." Leal, faithful ; fain, happy. 

10. "Comin' through the Rye." Gin,'\i, should. 

12. "Lines," etc. Found in Raleigh's Bible after his death; 
this on excellent if not conclusive testimony. 

15. "Life." Extract from a longer poem, though usually 
printed by itself. Wordsworth so admired these lines that he 
expressed the wish he had himself written them. 

16. "Afton Water." Afton is a small river that flows into 
the Nith, near New Cumnock. 

16. " Jenny Kissed Me." A pretty story associates the Jenny 
of these lines with Jane Welsh Carlyle. 

20. " Dirge." The concluding stanza of this famous dirge 
from " Cymbeline " is omitted. Thunder-stone, thunder-bolt ; 
consign to thee, " seal the same contract with thee, i. e., add their 
names to thine upon the register of death," (Steevens). 

22. " Oh, Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast." Bield, shelter. 

25. "The Retreat." Suggests comparisons at once with 
Wordsworth's " Ode on Immortality." 

26. " Bonnie Doon." Ilka, every. 

27. "At the Church Gate." The poem written by Arthur 
Pendennis for the " Spring Annual." See " Pendennis," chapter 
xxxi. 

30. " To the Moon." Mr. Saintsbury calls this, " The first 
perfectly charming sonnet in the English language." ( " Eliza- 

367 



NOTES 

bethan Literature," p. 102.) The last line is rendered obscure 
by transposition. It means, Do they call ungratefulness a virtue 
there ? 

31. " Annie Laurie." Gowan, wild daisy. 

33. " Rest." These lines are said to have been found under 
the pillow of a wounded soldier near Port Royal, S. C, in 1864. 

35. " Recessional." Written for the Queen's Jubilee, and 
contributed to the London Times, July 17, 1897. The Spectator 
said, " In his • Recessional ' Mr. Kipling has interpreted the feel- 
ing of the nation with an insight and a force which are truly 
marvellous." 

40. " My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing." Warstle, wrestle. 

44. " A Poet's Hope." Concluding stanzas of a lengthy 
poem. 

45. "The Port of Ships." Four stanzas of Miller's well- 
known poem, " Columbus." 

46. " Dirge for a Soldier." Written in memory of General 
Philip Kearney. 

50. " To Mary Unwin." Mrs. Unwin was a friend of Cow- 
per's, several years older than the poet, with whom he lived on 
terms of closest platonic intimacy for about twenty years. The 
story of their blameless love and mutual devotion forms one of 
the most beautiful chapters in literary history. 

51. "A Farewell." Tassie, a cup; Berwick- Law, "a con- 
spicuous height in Haddingtonshire, overlooking the Firth of 
Forth." 

52. " Highland Mary." Drumlie, muddy, turbid ; birk, birch. 

55. " On the Late Massacre in Piedmont." The Vaudois 
persecution (1655). 

56. " Sesostris." An Egyptian king, by some associated with 
Rameses II. One of the most imaginative sonnets yet written 
in America. 

60. For a' That and a' That." Birkie, conceited fellow ; gree, 
prize. 

62. " The Angler's Wish." Kenna, the name of his supposed 
mistress, formed from the maiden name of Walton's second 
wife, Ken. Shawford brook, " the name of that part of the 
river Sow that runs through the land which Walton bequeathed 
to the Corporation of Stafford to find coals for the poor. The 
right of fishery attaches to the little estate." (Sir H. Nicolas.) 
Bryan, name of his favourite dog. 

64. " Bannock-Burn." Bannockburn is a village in Stirling- 
shire, Scotland, where, June 24, 131 4, the Scots under Robert 
Bruce totally defeated the English under Edward II. 

j 2- " Song." Cockle hat, " hat decorated with cockles or scal- 
lop-shells, which were worn by pilgrims as the badge of their 
vocation " (Schelling) ; larded, garnished. 

79. " Hymn to the Spirit of Nature." The hymn to Asia in 
" Prometheus Unbound." 

368 



NOTES 

8 1. "O God ! Our Help in Ages Past." This superb invocation 
is unquestionably Watts's masterpiece. 

94. " Echo's Lament for Narcissus." From " Cynthia's 
Revels," acted 1600. Division, "A rapid musical phrase gener- 
ally sung on a single syllable and with one breath." (" Eliza- 
bethan Lyrics," p. 259.) 

94. "The Spring." Prick-song, refers to a piece of music 
which has been pricked down or written ; so called from the 
points or dots of the musical notation. 

98. " Spring." From " Valentinian," acted about 1616. A 
second stanza, beginning, " Yet the lusty spring hath stayed," is, 
as commonly, omitted. 

104. " Welcome, Welcome." Still (1. 9), ever, always ; the 
usual Elizabethan meaning. 

105. " The Maid of Neidpath." Neidpath Castle is near 
Peebles; it belonged to the Earls of March. This lyric, com- 
posed in 1806, was founded on fact. For the authentic story see 
Scott's " Lyrics and Ballads," edited by Andrew Lang. (Lon- 
don : J. M. Dent & Co., 1894, p. 5.) 

107. "Tell Me Where Is Fancy Bred." Fancy, love. 

109. " My Heart's in the Highlands." Straths, wide, open 
valleys, — usually river-courses. 

113. "Jesus, Lover of My Soul." The stanza, "Thou, O 
Christ, art all I want," is omitted. 

116. " Elizabeth of Bohemia." Daughter of James I. 

117. "Mary Morison." Stonre, conflict, strife; draw, finely 
dressed, handsome. 

117. "Take, O Take Those Lips Away." A second stanza, 
" Hide, O hide those hills of snow," etc., was added by Fletcher, 
and may be found in his " Bloody Brother," v. 2. 

120. " Jean." Airts, quarters, points of the compass ; row, roll. 

121. "True Rest." Concluding stanzas of the well-known 
poem beginning, " Sweet is the pleasure," etc. 

133. " Bonnie Wee Thing." Tine, lose ; stounds, aches. 

147. " The Nightingale." Up-till, up against ; King Pandion, 
father to Philomela, the nightingale ; lapped in lead, allusion to 
the old custom of rolling a corpse in a sheet of lead. 

152. " Divina Commedia." The opening sonnet of the beau- 
tiful sonnet-sequence bearing this title. 

155. "A Bard's Epitaph." Plate, shy, modest; snool, cringe; 
sing- dool, lament. 

157. " Battle Hymn of the Republic." Written in December, 
1861. The title was suggested by James T. Fields, who accepted 
the lines for publication in the Atlantic Monthly. Adapted to 
the familiar marching melody, " John Brown's Body," the song 
soon became very popular, and was sung all over the North 
before the close of the Civil War. 

160. " O Captain ! My Captain." Written in commemoration 
of Lincoln's death. 

369 



NOTES 

163. "To Stella." Without, unless; wi t, mind, understanding. 

166. " De Sheepfol'." This little masterpiece in the dialect 
of the American negro was first published in the author's " Tow- 
head," 1884. Mrs. Greene is best known perhaps by " Cape 
Cod Folks," 1 881. 

169. " To His Conscience." Wind, wind about, turn 'round. 

171. "Revolutions." Activity, etc., an astrological allusion: 
" When a star has risen and entered on the full stream of 
light ; " crooked eclipses, i. e., " as coming athwart the sun's 
apparent course." (Palgrave.) 

176. "Morning Prayer." The first four out of eight lines 
constituting " Matins, or Morning Prayer." (Palgrave's " Lyr- 
ical Poems of Robert Herrick" [G. T. S.], p. 165.) 

177. "The Nile." Sesostris, see note on Mifflin's " Sesos- 
tris," supra. 

179. " Shall I Compare Thee," etc. Fair thou owest, beauty 
thou own est. 

1 79. " Bright Star," etc. Keats's last sonnet. Nature's Eremite : 
like a solitary thing in Nature. (Eremite = hermit, anchorite.) 

182. " Of His Love's Beauty." Concluding lines of " Charis' 
Triumph." 

186. " Old Ironsides." " Old Ironsides " was the popular 
name for the frigate Constitution. Doctor Holmes's lines ap- 
peared in the Boston Advertiser at the time when it was proposed 
to break up the old ship as unfit for service. 

187. "The Harp That Once through Tara's Halls." Tara, a 
place in County Meath, Ireland, twenty-one miles from Dublin, 
celebrated in the early history of Ireland as a royal residence. 

199. "Contentment." Mean, the middle part in three-part 
music. There is here a play on the ordinary sense of the word. 

200. " On Himself." Some critics have held this to be the 
finest quatrain in the language. 

207. "On First Looking into Chapman's 'Homer.'" Cortez 
should of course be Balboa, yet a minor historical inaccuracy 
may well be ignored in so magnificent a sonnet. 

208. " Joy," from " The Angel in the House," Canto VII., 
" The Revulsion," Prelude L, " Joy and Use." 

208. " Silence." " This sonnet ranks among the twelve finest 
sonnets in the language." (Sharp.) 

211. " True Greatness." Seld, seldom. 

213. " On the Prospect of Planting Arts," etc. The author 
of these lines was an Irish prelate (of English descent) of the 
Church of England. His philosophical writings are noted for 
their extreme subjective idealism. Bishop Berkeley lived in 
America 1729-1731. 

220. "Grace for a Child." Paddocks, frogs. 

222. "Proud Maisie." Of this song from "The Heart of 
Midlothian," Mr. Palgrave says, " Scott has given us nothing 
more complete and lovely than this little song." 

3/0 



NOTES 

224. " A vision." Extract from a much longer poem, though 
frequently printed by itself. 

232. " On His Own Blindness." The second of two sonnets 
written about 1655, and addressed to Mr. Cyriack Skinner, an 
intimate friend and pupil of the poet. 

232. " To the Lord General Cromwell." Written in May, 
1652, when Cromwell was not yet Protector, though the leading 
man in the nation. He had just returned from his Irish and 
Scotch campaigns, which included the decisive victories of Dun- 
bar (Sept. 3, 1650), and Worcester (Sept. 3, 1651). 

235. " On His Deceased Wife." The reference is to the 
poet's second wife, Catharine Woodcock, who died in childbirth 
(1658), fifteen months after her marriage. Her face was veiled: 
Milton had married her after he was blind, and had never seen 
her features. 

236. " The Sirens' Song." Lines 5, 6 : " The aromatic herbs 
with which the phoenix built its nest on preparing to die in the 
flames ; hence appropriately an urn as well as nest." (Schelling.) 
Cf. " The phoenix builds her spicy nest " (Carew), p. 74. 

237. " Epitaph on Countess of Pembroke." The first of two 
stanzas. The second is so notably inferior to the other that it is 
seldom quoted. Some modern editors attribute this famous 
epitaph to William Browne. 

242. "The Men of Gotham." The catch sung by Mr. Hilary 
and the Rev. Mr. Larynx, " Nightmare Abbey." 

244. " I Wish I Were by That Dim Lake." Of this poem 
Edgar Poe expressed the opinion (in "The Poetic Principle") 
that it is as profoundly imaginative as any lyric in the language. 
The editor has taken the liberty to change the verb in the first 
line from was, as written by Moore, to were. The allusion is to 
a dreary spot in Donegal called " Patrick's Purgatory," about 
which many superstitions have clustered. The lake referred to 
became the mystic theatre of a fabled intermediate state, and 
was, during the Dark Ages, the resort of pilgrims from all over 
Europe." 

247. "Dream Pedlary." The opening stanzas of a longer 
poem. 

254. " Renouncement." Rosetti said of this poem that it 
was one of the three finest sonnets ever written by a woman. 
See Sharp's " Sonnets of the Century." 

256. "To a Waterfowl." Line 7: later editions of Bryant 
have, " As, darkly seen against the crimson sky." 

260. " Fredericksburg." Fredericksburg is the city in Vir- 
ginia, U. S. A., where Lee defeated Burnside, Dec. 13, 1862. 

264. " Rustic Joys." Tutties, nosegays ; silly, simple. 

267. " Auld Lang Syne." Gowans, daisies; fiere, comrade; 
guid-willie waught, hearty draught. 

269. " A Prayer." In Southey's works these lines have the 
title, " Imitated from the Persian." 

371 



NOTES 

270. " Care-charming Sleep." From " Valentinian," acted 
about 1616. 

272. " Evening Hymn." From " Religio Medici." 

273. "Love." From the "Miscellaneous Thoughts "in But- 
ler's " Remains." Several lines are omitted. 

276. " A Father's Blessing." " To his son Vincent on his 
birthday, November, 1630, being then three years old. Corbet 
was successively Bishop of Oxford and of Norwich." (J. Churton 
Collins.) 

281. " Green Grow the Rashes O." Tapsalteerie, topsy-turvy. 

287. " To an Athlete Dying Young." This, together with 
the selection on page 335, is taken from " A Shropshire Lad " 
(London : Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner & Co.), one of the most 
remarkable books of verse published in England for many years. 

299. " Duncan Gray." Coost, tossed ; asklent, askance ; unco 
skeigh, very skittish ; gart, made ; abeigk, aloof, off : fleec/i'd, 
wheedled; grat, wept; lowpin\ etc., leaping over a waterfall; 
crouse, canty, lively, jolly. 

302. " Pack, Clouds, Away." Stare, starling. 

310. "Willie Winkie." Tirlin\ rattling, tapping ; singm' gay 
thrums, purring gaily ; speldcred, sprawled ; gie a cheep, make a 
sound ; waukrife, wakeful, wide-awake ; glow'rin', staring ; skir- 
ling screaming ; in a creel : a creel is a willow basket used for 
holding fish, hence, probably, as restless as a fish in a basket. 
But the phrase, " to be in a creel " means usually to be puzzled 
or perplexed, and is perhaps derived from the old Scottish mar- 
riage custom of " creeling." See Cambridge edition of Burns, 
notes, p. 331. The first couplet of the last stanza is freely 
paraphrased in a well-known English version as follows : 

" Wearied is the mother that has a restless wean, — 
A wee, frumpy bairnie, heard whene'er he's seen." 

310. " Sound, Sound the Clarion." A motto from " Old 
Mortality." " These four lines contain the very essence of 
Scott's poetry." (Andrew Lang.) 

311. "The Girl Describes Her Fawn." Selected passage 
from a poem of considerable length. 

314. " Come, Thou Monarch of the Vine." A catch from 
" Antony and Cleopatra." Pink eyne, small eyes ; vats, the folio 
reads, fats. 

315. " Sleep." Prease, press, throng. In right, by right. 

318. "The Twa Corbies." Corbies, crows; fail, turf; theek, 
thatch. 

319. "The Mermaid Tavern." It was at this famous tavern 
that Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and their confreres met famil- 
iarly. Bowse, booze. 

322. " Lament of the Border Widow." Poin'd, seized ; 
happed, covered. 

372 



NOTES 

328. " The White Island." Candour, whiteness. 

335. " Breathes There the Man." From " The Lay of the 
Last Minstrel," Canto VI. 

336. " Rules and Lessons." Fair-day : the meaning is obscure, 
and hardly less so in the original text (1650), where the word 
is far-day, i. e., the advanced part of the day ; prevent, anticipate. 

338. " Absence." Appeared in Davison's " Poetical Rhap- 
sody," 1602. A third stanza, " My senses want their outward 
motions," is omitted. Close, secret. 

339. " O Fain Would I." From the first " Westminster 
Drollery," 1671, where it appears under the title of "A Song at 
the Duke's House." 

342. " Charlie He's My Darling." Scroggy, scrubby. 

343. " Hohenlinden." A battle fought near Munich, Dec. 2, 
1800, between the French and Austrians. 

344. " Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes." Yowes, ewes; knowes, 
knolls, hillocks ; burnie rowes, brook flows ; lift, sky. 

346. " Rosaline." The third stanza, " Her neck is like a 
stately tower," etc., is omitted. 

359. " Preparations. 1 ' This poem was discovered by Bullen 
and printed in his " More Lyrics from Elizabethan Song Books," 
from a MS. in the library of Christ Church College, Oxford. 
Order taken, arrangements made ; dazie, canopy of state. 

360. " The Burning Babe." Fry, in the old-time sense of 
burn. Southwell was a Jesuit priest who was imprisoned, 
racked, and finally executed by the government of Elizabeth 
because of his sturdy adherence to the Catholic faith. Jonson 
told Drummond that, " So he had written that piece of South- 
well's, ' The Burning Babe,' he would be content to destroy many 
of his." 

365. " At a Solemn Music." Concent, harmony. 



373 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 



Addison, Joseph (1672-1719), 82. 

Aide, Hamilton (1829- ), 323. 

Aldrich, James (1810-1856), 17. 

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey (1836- ), 226, 260. 

Allingham, William (1824-1889), 228. 

Arnold, Matthew (1822-1888), 69, 218, 233. 

Ayton, Sir Robert (1 570-1638), 198 

Barbauld, Anna L^etitia (1743-1825), 15. 

Baring-Gould, Sabine (1834- ), 150. 

Barnefield, Richard (1574-? ), 147. 

Barnes, William (1801-1886), 148. 

Beaumont, Francis (1586-1616), 158. 

Beaumont, Sir John (1582-1628), 271. 

Beaumont and Fletcher, 98, 240, 313, 321. 

Beddoes, Thomas Lovell (1803-1849), 192, 247, 250. 

Berkeley, George (1684-1753), 213. 

Blake, William (1757-1827), 26, 210, 215, 216, 255, 309, 327. 

Boker, George Henry (1823-1890), 46, 348. 

Bourdillon, Francis William (1852- ), 6. 

Breton, Nicholas (1545 ?-i626? )i25. 

Bridges, Robert (1844- )i29. 

Brown, Joseph Brownlee (1824-1888), 109. 

Brown, Thomas Edward (1830- ), 263. 

Browne, Sir Thomas (1605-1682), 272. 

Browne, William (1591-1643?) 104, 236. 

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett (1809-1861). 90, 248, 296,304 

Browning, Robert (1812-1889), 20, 67, 89. 92, 96, 128, 136. 

137. 217, 341, 347. 
Bryant, William Cullen (1794-1878), 256, 266. 
Burns, Robert (1759-1796), 8, 16, 22, 26, 40, 51, 52, 60, 64, 68 

106, 109, 117, 120, 133, 155, 267, 281, 299,342, 344 
Butler, Samuel (1600-1680), 273. 
Byron, George Gordon, Lord (1788-1824), 3, 5, 41, 53, 68 

69, 133, 145, 149, 298, 301, 352. 
Campbell, Thomas (1777-1844), 65, 85, 139, 153, 253, 343. 
Campion, Thomas (c 1 567-1620), 130, 174, 196, 264, 283, 288 

3,75 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 

Carew, Lady Elizabeth (?-i635), 211. 

Carew, Thomas (1589-1639), 2, 74, 126, 297, 302. 

Channing, William Ellery (1818- ), 44. 

Clough, Arthur Hugh (1819-1861), 168, 269, 270, 356. 

Coleridge, Hartley (1796-1849), 2, 348. 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor (1772-1834), 260, 292. 

Collins, John (17- -1808), 243. 

Collins, William (1721-1759), 320. 

Corbet, Bishop Richard (1 582-1635), 276. 

Cowley, Abraham (1618-1667), 153. 

Cowper, William (1731-1800), 50, 206. 

Craik, Dinah Maria Mulock (1826-1887), 135. 

Crashaw, Richard (1613-1649), 251. 

Cunningham, Allan (1784-1842), 24, 39, 222. 

Daniel, Samuel (1562-1619), 121, 277. 

Davenant, Sir William (1605-1668), 235, 239. 

Davies, Sir John (1570- 1626), 173. 

Dekker, Thomas (i57o?-i64i), 204, 245. 

De Vere, Aubrey Thomas (1814- ), 175. 

Devereux, Robert, Earl of Essex (1 567-1601), 199. ■ 

Dibdin, Charles (1745-1814), 214. 

Dobson, Austin (1840- ), 362. 

Donne, John (1573-1631), 123, 262, 338. 

Douglas of Eingland (Seventeenth Century), 31. 

Drayton, Michael (1563-1631), 277, 296. 

Drummond, William (1585- 1649), 55, 138, 171, 263, 285. 

Dunlop, John (1755-1820), 73. 

Dwight, John Sullivan (1813-1893), 121. 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo (1803-1882), 57, 123, 159. 

Fletcher, John (1 579-1625), 164, 170, 270. 

Fletcher. Phineas (1582-1650), 295. 

Gilder, Richard Watson (1844- ), 320. 

Goldsmith, Oliver (1728-1774), 135. 

Graham, James, Marquis of Montrose (1612-1650), 337. 

Greene, Robert (1560-1592), 71, 194, 199. 

Greene, Sarah Pratt McLean (1858- ), 166. 

Habington, William (1605-1654), 183. 

Hausted, Peter (d. 1645), 2 45- 

Henley, William Ernest (1849- ), 356. 

Herbert, George (1 593-1632), 1, 3, 165, 229, 231, 254. 

Herrick, Robert (1 591-1674), 18, 19, 72, 75, 86, 93, 95, 100, 

103, 131, 169, 176, 181, 219, 220, 240, 275, 307, 328, 350. 
Heywood, Thomas (1575 ? -1650), 302. 
Holmes, Oliver Wendell (1809-1894), 186. 
Hood, Thomas (1799-1845), 17, 38, 89, 191, 208, 291. 
Houghton, Lord (See Milnes, Richard Monckton). 
Housman, A. E. (186 - ), 287, 335. 
Howe, Julia Ward (1819- ), 157. 
Howland, Mary Woolsey (1832-1864), 33. 

376 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 

Hovey, Richard (1864-1900), 334. 

Hunt, Leigh (1784-1859), 16, 36, 177, 278, 282. 

Ingelow, Jean (1830-1897), 258, 324. 

Jonson, Ben (1 574-1637), 1, 30, 40, 94, 182, 237, 261, 279, 306, 

314- 

Keats, John (1795-1821), 48, 179, 207, 259, 274, 308, 319, 352. 

King, Henry (1592-1669), yj, 164, 172, 273. 

Kingsley, Charles (1819-1875), 4, 61, 131, 182, 203, 220. 

Kipling, Rudyard (1865- ), 35. 

Lamb, Charles (177 5-1834), 21, 70. 

Landor, Walter Savage (1775-1864), 13, 29, 78, 87, 88, 124, 

127, 152, 154, 169, 195, 200, 354,355- 
Locker- Lampson, Frederick (1821-1895), 332, 334. 
Lodge, Thomas (1 556-1625), 346. 
Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth (1807-1882), 29, 41, 57, 

152. 
Lovelace, Richard (1618-1658), 28, 47, 238. 
Lowell, James Russell (1819-1891), 180, 226. 
Lyly, John (1 554-1600), 94, 294. 
Lytton, Robert Bulwer (1831-1891), 23. 
MacDonald, George (1824- ), 250. 
Marlowe, Christopher (1 564-1 593), 300. 
Marvell, Andrew (1621-1678), 311. 
Marzials, Theophile (1850- ), 221. 
Meredith, George (1828- ), 326. 
Meynell, Alice (c. 1848- ), 254. 
Mifflin, Lloyd (1846- ), 56, 162. 
Miller, Cincinnatus Hiner (Joaquin) (1841- ), 45. 
Miller, William (1810-1872), 310. 
Milnes, Richard Monckton (1809-1885), 146, 190, 268. 
Milton, John (1608-1674), 55, 98, 114, 122, 232, 235, 295, 365. 
Moore, Thomas (1779-1852), 54, 159, 187, 201, 244, 330. 
Motherwell, William (1 797-1835), 345. 
Nairn, Lady Carolina (1776-1845), 9. 
Nash, Thomas (1 567-1601 ? ), 101. 
Newman, John Henry, Cardinal (1801-1890), 230. 
Norris, John (1657-1711), 252, 325. 
O'Shaughnessy, Arthur William Edgar (1844-1881), 77, 

132, 197. 
Otway, Thomas (1651-1685), 341. 
Parsons, Thomas William (1819-1892), 11. 
Patmore, Coventry (i 823-1896), 58, 151, 208. 
Peacock, Thomas Love (1785-1866), 242. 
Peele, George (1 558-1 598? ), 193. 
Pinkney, Edward Coate (1802-1828), 191. 
Poe, Edgar Allan (1809-1849), 50, 76, 257. 
Pope, Alexander (1688-1744), 42, 151. 
Prior, Matthew (1662-172 i), 118. 
Procter, Adelaide Anne (1825-1864), 205. 

377 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 

Procter, Bryan Waller (1787-1874), 4, 188. 

Quarles, Francis (1592-1644), 80, 361. 

Raleigh, Sir Walter (1 552-1618), 12. 

Randolph, Thomas (1606-1634), yj. 

Read, Thomas Buchanan (1822-187 2), 66. 

Rogers, Robert Cameron (1862- ), 126. 

Rogers, Samuel (1763-1855), 19, 118. 

Rossetti, Christina Georgina (1830-1894), 12, 137, 185, 362, 

364- 
Rossetti, Dante Gabriel (1828-1882), 185, 305. 
Scott, Sir Walter (1771-1832), 105, 119, 134, 140, 143, 161, 

222, 237, 310, 335. 
Sedley, Sir Charles (1631-1701), 120. 
Shakespeare, William (1 564-1616), 20, 44, 73, 84, 101, 107, 

117, 139, 149, 171, 179, 189, 227, 259, 294, 308, 312,314,315, 

34o, 35 2 - 
Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822), 8, 48, 56, 79, 106, 158, 177, 

187, 209, 217, 246, 249, 280, 349, 354. 
Shirley, James (1 596-1666), 14, 285. 
Sidney, Sir Philip (1554-1586), 30, 163, 278, 292, 315, 316. 
Sill, Edward Rowland (1841-1887), 178. 
Southey, Robert (1774-1843), 269, 286. 
Southwell, Robert (i 560-1 595), 360. 
Spencer, William Robert (1770-1834), 28. 
Stedman, Edmund Clarence (1833- ), 91. 
Stoddard, Richard Henry (1825- ), 162. 
Suckling, Sir John (1609-1641), 107, 130, 219. 
Swinburne, Algernon Charles (1837- ), 241, 282. 
Sylvester, Joshua (1 563-1618), 138, 202. 
Tabb, John Banister (1845- )■> 33°* 33^- 
Tennyson, Alfred, Lord (1809-1892), 13, 15,32,34,63, 78, 

83, 97, 144, 207, 216, 224, 276, 284, 293, 329, 331, 333, 351, 

358, 361, 366. 
Thackeray, William Makepeace (1811-1863), 27, 108. 
Thomson, James (1700-1748), 357. 
Thurlow, Edward, Lord (1 781-1829), 84. 
Toplady, Augustus Montague (1 740-1 778), 234. 
Turner, Charles Tennyson (1808-1879), 32, 200. 
Vaughan, Henry (1622-1695), 25, in, 112, 224, 336. 
Waller, Edmund (1606-1687), 6, 72, 317. 
Walton, Isaak (1 593-1683), 62. 
Waring, Anna L^titia (18- ), 353. 
Watson, William (1858- ), 22, 163, 241. 
Watts, Isaac (1674-1748), 81. 
Watts-Dunton, Theodore (1836- ), 305. 
Webster, John (c. 1600-1638), 173, 293. 
Wesley, Charles (1707-1788), 113. 
White, Joseph Blanco (1775-1841), n. 
Whitman, Walt (1819-1892), 160, 167. 

378 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 

Wilde, Richard Henry (1789-1847), 289. 
Wither, George (1 588-1 667), 265. 
Wolfe, Charles (1791-1823), 156. 

WOODBERRY, GEORGE EDWARD (1855- ), l8. 

Wordsworth, William (i 770-1850), 5, 7, 43, 49, 59, 83, 99, 
102, 110, 115, 141, 148, 184, 209, 212, 223,225,248, 290, 316, 

363- 
Wotton, Sir Henry (1568-1639), 116, 142. 
Anonymous, 10, 124, 181, 189, 196, 279, 283, 298, 303, 307, 318, 

322, 329, 339, 359. 



379 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by 

A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot I 

A slumber did my spirit seal 

A steed ! a steed of matchless speed . 

A sweet disorder in the dress 

A wearied pilgrim I have wander'd here 

A weary lot is thine, fair maid 

A wet sheet and a flowing sea 

A widow bird sat mourning for her love 

A w r idow — she had only one ! 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase 

About the sweet bag of a bee 

Absence, hear thou this protestation . 

Adieu, adieu ! my native shore . 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever . 

Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh 

Ah, did you once see Shelley plain ? . 

Ah, my Perilla ! dost thou grieve to see 

Ah, sweet, thou little knowest how 

Ah, were she pitiful as she is fair 

Ah what avails the sceptred race 

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon 

All June I bound the rose in sheaves . 

All love, at first, like gen'rous wine 

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair 

All's over, then : does truth sound bitter 

All that thou art not, makes not up the sum 

All the breath and the bloom of the year 

All the flowers of the spring 

Although I enter not .... 

Among thy fancies tell me this . 

Another lamb, O Lamb of God, behold 

Art thou pale for weariness 

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers ? 

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er 

As a twig trembles, which a bird 

3Si 



3i6 
263 

49 
345 

75 
219 
161 

39 
354 
334 

36 
275 
338 

68 
106 

237 
217 

191 
194 

J 2 5 
182 

89 

273 

292 

92 

338 
96 

173 

27 

307 

33° 
158 
204 

41 
180 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



As I came round the harbour buoy . 

As I in hoary winter's night .... 

As I was walking all alane 

As it fell upon a day 

As ships, becalm'd at eve, that lay 

As slow our ship her foamy track 

As thro' the land at eve we went 

Ask me no more : the moon may draw the sea . 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows . 

Ask me why I send you here .... 

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears 

At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time . 

Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughtered saints whose bones 

Awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake ! 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! 

Be not afraid to pray — to pray is right 

Beating heart ! we come again .... 

Beauties, have ye seen this toy .... 

Behind him lay the gray Azores .... 

Behold her, single in the field .... 

Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind .... 

Bonnie wee thing 1 cannie wee thing ! 

Brave flowers — that I could gallant it like you . 

Break, break, break 

Breathes there the man with soul so dead . 

Bright Star ! would I were steadfast as thou art 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood 

Ca' the yowes to the knowes .... 

Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren . 

Can I not sin, but thou wilt be . 

Can I, who have for others oft compiled 

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night 

Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes 

Child of a day, thou knowest not 

Close his eyes ; his work is done 

Come live with me and be my Love . 

Come not, when I am dead 

Come rest in my bosom, my own stricken deer . 
Come, Sleep ! O Sleep ! the certain knot of peace 
Come, thou monarch of the vine .... 
Come unto these yellow sands .... 
Come, we shepherds, whose blest sight 
Contemplate all this work of Time 
Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas . 

Creep into thy narrow bed 

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud 
Cupid and my Campaspe play'd .... 
Cyriack, this three years' day, these eyes, though clear 

382 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days .... 57 

De massa ob de sheepfol' 166 

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee . -123 

Death stands above me, whispering low . . . 13 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows ..... 358 
Does the road wind up-hill all the way . . . .12 

Drink to me only with thine eyes 279 

Drop, drop, slow tears 295 

Duncan Gray cam here to woo 299 

Earl March look'd on his dying child 139 

Earth has not anything to show more fair ... . . 225 

E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks .... 361 
E'en such is time; that takes on trust . . . .12 

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind 3 

Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! .... 43 

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see 100 

Fair maiden! when I look at thee 1^7 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree 86 

Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy . . . -352 

Farewell 1 if ever fondest prayer 69 

Fate ! I have asked few things of thee . . . 1 54 

Father, I know that all my life 353 

Fear Death ? — to feel the fog in my throat . . . 347 

Fear no more the heat o' the sun ..... 20 

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea 78 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes . . 16 

Flower in the crannied wall 207 

Foil'd by our fellow men, depress'd, outworn . . . 233 

Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet . . . 1 74 
Four Seasons fill the measure of the year . . . -259 

Full fathom five thy father lies 149 

Gane were but the winter cauld 222 

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may 72 

Gin a body meet a body 10 

Give me more love or more disdain 126 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine 51 

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand . . . 304 

Go, happy Rose, and, interwove 240 

Go, lovely Rose ! 317 

God moves in a mysterious way 206 

God of our fathers, known of old ..... 35 

Golden slumbers kiss your eyes ...... 245 

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer ...... 228 

Green grow the rashes O 281 

Hail thou most sacred venerable thing ! . . . . 325 
Hame, hame, hame ! oh, hame I fain would be ! . .24 

Happy the man whose wish and care 42 

Happy those early days, when I 25 

Happy were he could finish forth his fate . . . . 199 

383 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



Hark, hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings 

Has summer come without the rose . 

Have you a desire to see 

Have you seen but a bright lily grow . 

He that loves a rosy cheek . 

Hear ye ladies that despise . 

Helen, thy beauty is to me . 

Hence, all you vain delights 

Her arms across her breast she laid . 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee 

Her suffering ended with the day 

Here, a little child I stand . 

Here a pretty baby lies 

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling 

Here a solemn fast we keep 

Here, in this little bay .... 

High-way, since you my chief Parnassus be 

His golden locks time hath to silver turned 

Ho ! pretty page, with the dimpled chin 

Home they brought her warrior dead . 

How delicious is the winning 

How do I love thee ? Let me count the ways 

How happy is he born and taught 

How long, great God, how long must I 

How many paltry, foolish, painted things . 

How many summers, love .... 

How many times do I love thee, dear ? 

How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits 

How should I your true love know 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth 

How sweet it were, if without feeble fright . 

I arise from dreams of thee 

I did but look and love awhile . 

I do not ask, O Lord, that life may be 

I do not love thee for that fair . 

I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden . 

I have a mistress, for perfections rare . 

I have had playmates, I have had companions 

I have no name 

I have no wit, no w T ords, no tears 

I heard a thousand blended notes 

I in these flowery meads would be 

I know as well as you she is not fair . 

I know my soul hath power to know all things 

I know not that the men of old . 

I lay me down to sleep .... 

I love, and have some cause to love, the earth 

I loved him not ; and yet, now he is gone . 

384 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



I loved thee once, I'll love no more . 

I met a traveller from an antique land 

I must not think of thee ; and, tired yet strong 

I never gave a lock of hair away 

I prithee send me back my heart 

I remember, I remember 

I sat beside the streamlet . 

I saw Eternity the other night . 

I stand upon the summit of my years 

I stood, one Sunday morning 

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife 

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless 

I travell'd among unknown men . 

I wander'd by the brook-side 

I wander'd lonely as a cloud 

I weigh not fortune's frown or smile . 

I went to her who loveth me no more . 

I wish I were by that dim lake . 

I'd a dream to-night 

If only in dreams may man be fully blest . 

If the quick spirits in your eye . 

If there were dreams to sell 

If this fair rose offend thy sight . 

If thou must love me, let it be for nought . 

If Thou survive my well-contented day 

If to be absent were to be . 

If you be that May Margaret 

I'm wearing awa', Jean .... 

In martial sports I had my cunning tried . 

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes 

In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining 

In the merrie moneth of Maye . 

In this world, the Isle of Dreams 

Is there a whim-inspired fool 

Is there for honest poverty . 

Is this a fast, — to keep 

It flows through old hush'd Egypt and its sands 

It fortifies my soul to know 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free 

It is not growing like a tree 

It was a beauty that I saw .... 

It was her first sweet child, her heart's delight 

It was not in the winter . . . . 

Jack and Joan, they think no ill . 

Jenny kissed me when we met 

Jesus, lover of my soul .... 

John Anderson my jo, John 

Just for a day you crossed my life's dull track 

Kissing her hair, I sat against her feet 

385 



198 
56 

254 
90 

107 

291 

3 2 3 

224 
109 
268 
200 
296 

49 
190 

"5 

202 
197 

244 
148 

305 

302 
247 

3°7 
90 

44 
238 
221 

9 

278 
123 
243 
I2 5 
328 

I SS 
60 

93 

177 

356 
225 

3i4 
200 

264 
16 

"3 

8 
163 

282 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



Lay a garland on my hearse . . 

Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom . 

Leaf after leaf drops off, flower after flower 

Let Youth, who never rests, run by 

Life and Thought have gone away 

Life 1 I know not what thou art . 

Life of Life ! Thy lips enkindle .... 

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore 

Like to the clear in highest sphere 

Like to the falling of the star .... 

Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man 

Look out upon the stars, my love 

Lord 1 who art merciful as well as just 

Lord, with what care hast Thou begirt us round I 

Love bade me welcome ; yet my soul drew back 

Love comes back to his vacant dwelling 

Love in her sunny eyes doth basking play . 

Love is a sickness full of woes . 

Love not me for comely grace 

Love within the lover's breast 

Mary ! I want a lyre with other strings 

Maxwelton braes are bonnie 

Men of England, heirs of Glory . 

Methought I saw my late espoused saint . 

Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour 

Mine be a cot beside the hill 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of 

Momentous to himself as I to me 

Mortality, behold and fear .... 

Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes . 

Mother, I cannot mind my wheel 

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold 

Music, when soft voices die 

My boat is on the shore .... 

My days among the Dead are past 

My dear and only Love, I pray . 

My fairest child, I have no song to give you 

My heart, I cannot still it . 

My heart leaps up when I behold 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here 

My letters ! all dead paper, mute and white 

My life is like the summer rose . 

My little love, do you remember 

My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes 

My love he built me a bonnie bower . 

My love in her attire doth show her wit 

My mind lets go a thousand things 

My mother bore me in the southern wild . 

My once-dear Love ! — hapless that I no more 

386 



the Lord 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



shore 



My thoughts hold mortal strife . 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his 

Mysterious Night ! when our first parent knew 

Never love unless you can .... 

Never seek to tell thy love 

Never the time and the place 

Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to 

Nightingales warble about it 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note . 

Not, Celia, that I juster am 

Now fades the last long streak of snow 

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger 

Now the day is over 

Now the lusty Spring is seen 

O blithe new-comer! I have heard 

O Captain ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done 

O Day most calm, most bright . 

O dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye 

O, fain would I, before I die 

O Friend I I know not which way I must look 

O God ! our help in ages past 

O lovers' eyes are sharp to see . . . . 

O Mary, at thy window be . 

O Mary, go and call the cattle home . 

O my Luve's like a red, red rose 

O Mistress mine, where are you roaming 

O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray . 

O, snatched away in beauty's bloom I 

O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South . 

O that 'twere possible 

O Time ! O Death ! I clasp you in my arms 

O World ! O Lif e ! O Time ! * 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 

Of this fair volume which we World do name 

Oft have I seen, at some cathedral door 

Oft in the stilly night 

Oh talk not to me of a name great in story 

Oh, to be in England 

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast . 

Oh, yet we trust that somehow good . 

On a Poet's lips I slept .... 

On Linden, when the sun was low 

Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee 

Once it smiled a silent dell .... 

One word is too often profaned . 

Orphan hours, the year is dead . 

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd 

Out of the bosom of the air . 

Out of the night that covers me . 



171 
292 

283 

26 

136 

174 

18 

156 

120 

97 
122 

I5 S 
98 

99 
160 
231 

73 
339 
no 

81 

117 
203 

51 
352 

122 
41 

276 

44 
217 
128 
130 

J 5 2 
201 

133 

67 
22 

34 
209 

343 
212 

257 
48 

349 
65 
29 

356 



387 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



Out upon it, I have loved . 

Over hill, over dale .... 

Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day 

Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth 

Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl . 

Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin 

Proud Maisie is in the wood 

Proud word you never spoke, but you will 

Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair . 

Rest is not quitting .... 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky . 

Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me 

Rock of ages, cleft for me . 

Roses, their sharp spines being gone . 

Say not, the struggle nought availeth . 

Scorn not the sonnet ; critic, you have frowned 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled . 

Seamen three ! What men be ye ? 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness 

Seek not the tree of silkiest bark 

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day ? 

Shall I, wasting in despair . 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

She is a winsome wee thing 

She is not fair to outward view . 

She stood breast high amid the corn . 

She walks in beauty, like the night 

She was a Phantom of delight 

Shed no tear! O, shed no tear . 

Shepherds all, and maidens fair . 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot . 

Shut not so soon ; the dull-ey'd*night . 

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless 

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part 

Sister, awake ! close not your eyes 

Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me 

Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile 

Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed 

Sleep, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest 

Sleep, sleep, beauty bright .... 

Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears 

Sole Lord of Lords and very King of Kings 

Somewhere or other there must surely be . 

Souls of Poets dead and gone 

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife ! 

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king 

Star that bringest home the bee . 

Steer hither, steer your winged pines . 

Stella, think not that I by verse seek fame 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



Still to be neat, still to be drest . 

Strange fits of passion have I known 

Such a starved bank of moss 

Sunset and evening star 

Sweet and low, sweet and low 

Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content 

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright 

Sweet order hath its draught of bliss . 

Swiftly walk over the western wave . 

Take, O take those lips away 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean 

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind 

Tell me where is Fancy bred 

That time of year thou may'st in me behold 

That which her slender waist confined 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold 

The day returns, my bosom burns 

The fairest action of our human life . 

The fountains mingle with the river . 

The glories of our blood and state 

The gray sea, and the long black land 

The harp that once through Tara's halls 

The heath this night must be my bed . 

The hours I spent with thee, dear heart 

The increasing moonlight drifts across my bed 

The lark now leaves his watery nest . 

The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's king 

The lowest trees have tops ; the ant her gall 

The maid who binds her warrior's sash 

The man of life upright .... 

The merchant, to secure his treasure . 

The merry, merry lark was up and singing . 

The minstrel boy to the war is gone . 

The more we live, more brief appear . 

The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime . 

The night has a thousand eyes . 

The night is come, like to the day 

The sea hath many thousand sands . 

The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er 

The spacious firmament on high . 

The splendour falls on castle walls 

The sun descending in the west . 

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills, and the 

plains 

The sun upon the lake is low 

The tide rises, the tide falls 

The time you won your town the race 

The wish that of the living whole 

389 



40 
184 
34i 

T 3 
284 
199 

18 

3 
208 
246 
117 

r S 

28 
I07 
294 

72 
M5 

68 

211 

8 

14 

20 

187 

143 
126 
260 
235 

55 
329 

66 
288 
118 
131 
i59 
253 
213 
6 
272 

1 

82 

63 

210 

333 
119 

57 
287 
224 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



The world is too much with us ; late and soon 

The year's at the spring 

There are gains for all our losses 

There are some wishes that may start 

There be none of Beauty's daughters . 

There falls with every wedding chime . 

There is a city builded by no hand 

There is a flower I wish to wear . 

There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine 

There is a garden in her face 

There is a silence where hath been no sound 

There's no dew left on the daisies and clover 

There's not a joy the world can give . 

They all were looking for a king . 

They are all gone into the world of light 

They made the chamber sweet with flowers and leaves 

This bronze doth keep the very form and mould 

This life, which seems so fair 

Thou bidst me come away . 

Thou blossom, bright with autumn dew 

Thou wast all that to me, love 

Three fishers went sailing out into the west 

Through that pure virgin shrine . 

Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums 

Throw away Thy rod . 

Tiger, Tiger, burning bright 

'Tis much immortal beauty to admire . 

Too avid of earth's bliss, he was of those 

Too late I stayed, — forgive the crime 

T'other day, as I was twining 

Touch us gently, Time ! 

'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean 

'Twas on a Monday morning 

Two Voices are there ; one is of the Sea 

Under the greenwood tree . 

Under the lindens lately sat 

Underneath this sable hearse 

Unless my senses are more dull . 

Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away 

Up ! up, my friend ! and quit your books 

Upon a cloud among the stars we stood 

Upon my lap my sovereign sits . 

Victorious men of earth, no more 

Vital spark of heavenly flame 

Waken, lords and ladies gay 

Wanting is — what ? . 

We are the music makers . 

We have seen thee, O Love, thou art fair 

We saw, and woo'd each other's eyes . 



390 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



We watch'd her breathing thro' the night . . . .17 

Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town .... 310 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee . . • 7 1 

Weep with me, all you that read 261 

Weep you no more, sad fountains 189 

Welcome, welcome, do I sing 104 

Were I as base as is the lowly plain 138 

What bird so sings, yet does so wail ? .... 94 

What, cringe to Europe I Band it all in one . . . 348 

What I shall leave thee none can tell 276 

What may we take into the vast Forever . . . .178 

What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones . 114 

When all the world is young, lad ..... 4 

When Britain first at Heaven's command .... 357 

When do I see thee most, beloved one? .... 305 

When first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave . . . 336 

When God at first made Man 1 

When I am dead, my dearest 362 

When I am standing on a mountain crest .... 334 

When I consider how my light is spent .... 295 
When I have fears that I may cease to be . . . .48 

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced . . . 227 

When I think on the happy days 283 

When I was one and twenty 335 

When in the chronicle of wasted time . . . • x 39 

When Letty had scarce pass'd her third glad year . . 32 

When Love with uncon fined wings 47 

When lovely woman stoops to folly 135 

When maidens such as Hester die 7° 

When the lamp is shatter'd 249 

When the voices of children are heard on the green . .216 

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought . . . 315 

When we two parted 301 

When with the virgin morning thou dost rise . . .176 

Whenas in silks my Julia goes 75 

Where lies the land to which the ship would go . . . 270 

Where the bee sucks, there suck I 312 

Whither, midst falling dew 256 

Who is Silvia? what is she .84 

Who is the baby, that doth lie 192 

Why do ye weep, sweet babes ? Can tears • • • 95 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover 130 

Why weep ye by the tide, ladie 134 

Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun .... 262 

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies . 30 

With sweetest milk and sugar first 311 

Ye banks and braes and streams around 52 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon 26 

Yes : I write verses now and then 88 



391 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



Yes ! in the sea of life enisled 

Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye 

Yet if His Majesty, our sovereign lord 

You meaner beauties of the night 

You say I love not, 'cause I do not play 

Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass 



PAGE 

218 
223 

359 
116 

275 
185 



392 



AUG 19 1901 



